t LIBRARY OF COXGRKSS. t 






f f XITRD STATES OF AMERTD ^ 



POPULAR BOOKS. 

By "Brick Pomeroy." 



I.— SENSE, 
n. — NONSENSE. 
in. — SATURDAY NIGHTa 



'The versatility of genius exhibited by this author has won foj 

him a world-wide reputation as a facetious and a strong 

writer. One moment replete with the most 

touching pathos, and the next fuU of 

of fun, frolic, and sarcasm. '' 



All published uniform with this volume, at $1.50, and sent 
by maU, free of postage, on receipt of price, by 

CARIiETON, Publlsber, 
NeTV York. 






OUE 



Saturday Nights 



BY 

MARK M. POMEROY, 

AUTHOR OF "SENSE," AND "NONSENSE. 



Wilj m^xxi^ Pwstratkns bg f. f. Bttpfetns. 




KEW YORK: 

Carleton, Publisher, Madison Square. 

LONDON : S. LOW, SON, & CO. 
MDCCCLXX. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
GEORGE -W. CAELETON, 
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
District of New York. 



Stereotyped at 

The "Women's Printing House, 

Eighth Street and Avenue A, 

New York. 



^Mtuixaix. 



TO THE 

WIVES AND THE WORKING-MEN 

OF THE WOELD, 

^^is ttuprjEtjmbing fcoluntc of ^eart - foritteir C^aptos, 

IS KESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, 

WITH THE EABNEST PBATER THAT IT MAY ADD TO 

THE HAPPINESS OF 

^jearls anb Pomies. 

M. M. POMEROY. 
New yobk, 1870. 



CONTENTS. 



I. — Sitting Sros by Side 17 

II. — Little Tm Pails 25 

III. — Little Homes and Loved Ones ... 32 

IV. — An Empty Hearse 40 

v. — Home on a Shutter 50 

VI. — Our Treasures 58 

VII. — A Little Girl Whose Name is Lulu, 66 

YIII. — Such a Little Coffin ! 79 

IX. — Kind Words from Woman's Lips . . . 88 

X. — Staggering Home 96 

XI. — Worth of Woman's Love 105 

XII.— Funeral Next Door 113 

Xni. — " Only Two Laborers Killed ! " . . 120 

XTV. — Sinking to Best 128 

XV. — Standing before the Minister . . . 136 

XVI. —Burdens, and Those Who Bear Them, 144 

XVII. — Best for the Weary 155 

XVIIL — Only a Poor Old Wood-sawyer! . . 163 

XIX. — Home to the Loved Ones . . . . . 173 

XX. — About THAT Little ''Yes" 180 

XXI. — She Brought a Skeleton 187 

XXn. — Going Hom:e 196 

XXIII. — Soliloquy of a Happy Man .... 203 

XXIV.— Very Lonely 211 

XXV. — About Our Neighbor 219 

XXVL — Plain Words to Those we Love . . 226 

XXVIL— The Old Woman 237 

XXVIII. — The Family Record 245 

XXIX. — The Poor Old Man 255 

XXX. — The Old Bureau Drawers .... 264 
(vi; 



PROLOGUE 




' 0-DAY an old friend came to our private 
room and asked : 

V^l^ a Did you know , of Milwaukee, when 

you lived there?" 

"Yes." 

*'Did you know his daughter, who attended the 
Ward school?" 

"Not the very pretty girl, who was so quick, 
attractive, and so full of promise ? " 

"The same." 

"What of her? It is years since then — since 
we saw her in school one day, a little innocent girl, 
the pride of her parents, and the loved of all. 
What of her?" 

"She is dead!" 

"Well?" 

"She died in this city this morning early. 
Poisoned herself last night. And the keeper of 
the house where she is says she must be taken away 
this afternoon, for a dead person in the house kills 
luck." 

"Tell us more." 



viii Prologue. 

And he told us a heart-rending history. Years 
ago, nine as the calendar counts, the one who had 
tired of life, was a child in Milwaukee, a distant city 
of the West. She was quick, bright, attractive, and 
over-petted to her injury. Her temper was hot — 
her charms many. She lived for excitement. She 
went aside from the path her loved parents had so 
well walked, and loitered in the bowers of that in- 
cipient sporting life, where those enticed slyly taste 
the fruit, and inhale the perfume of attractive flowers 
growmg so beautifully on deadly vines. The poison 
went to her brain; the early life became warped 
as present pleasures were planted for future pains. 

She came and went ; she roamed and romped like 
the butterfly that cares not for the winter ; she sat, 
and rode, and walked, and talked, and rested with 
those who were feasting on her young loveliness, 
till home became irksome ; and, when those who 
loved her best did kindly ask her of the present, 
she rebelled, and inhaled more of the poison, 
which drove the good from the heart. 

She thought bowers were houses — rambles here 
and there amid vines and flowers were walks on 
the road to life. 

And when the flower fell and the thorn pricked 
her soul, instead of returning to the true path and 
'seeking only the love of one, she tried other laby- 
rinths, and yet others. But, alas ! the flowers fell 
everywhere, and everywhere the ugly thorns followed. 



Prologue. ix 

Then she left her home. Under a veil, and an 
assumed name she went to other cities: she came 
to this and drank deep of the poison which gave 
fewer and yet fewer hours of pleasure and more 
and more days of grief. 

She was sought by this one — by that one. She 
gave to this one and to that one. Keeping nothing 
for herself, living only on the froth, and never 
drinking deeply of the pure water beneath. With 
her back upon hearts, home, happiness, and true 
manly friendship, she sought her home in the whirl, 
and lived to float, and drift, and be tossed from arm 
to arm, as whim, fancy, or devil-leading passion drew 
the ribbon, or shot glances from watching eyes that 
were but detectives for baser souls within. 

With our friend we went to her room. Up 
Broadway, and then into a side street. The ring 
of a door-bell brought a negro woman to open the 
walnut door of a palace, so-called. Up stairs to a 
beautifully furnished bedroom — three of us, besides 
the undertaker and his assistant, with a plain coffin. 

Softly — in here. Ah! She will not waken. We 
looked, and the tears came into our eyes, for all 
she was but a dead unfortunate. She was once a 
girl — once a woman — once a loved child, beside 
whose Httle bed fond parents have stood and gazed 
on her sleeping beauty, and thanked God for her 
coming. 



X Prologue. 

Finery everywhere. Silks, jewelry, articles of the 
toilet — pictures on the walls, dresses spotted by 
wine, books of prose and poetry. 

A slipper on the right foot — silk stockings fitting 
her beautiful ankle — a little plain gold and three 
diamond rings on the fingers of the left hand, with 
a single-stone diamond-ring on the fore-finger of 
the right. A watch and chain lay noiseless on the 
bureau, stopped at fifteen minutes past four. Won- 
der if her life ran down then ? God only knows ! 
A little white kitten, with ribbon of blue about its 
neck, was sleeping on the pillow. Beside her was 
an empty ounce vial, which had contained laudanum. 

She lay partly across the bed, one hand under 
her head, as if sleeping; her beautiful hair dis- 
hevelled, but such a sad, sick, desolate look on her 
face, the tears would not keep back. 

She had died as she lived, in her finery. In her 
hand was a letter, — a good, kind, heart-written let- 
ter from one who had known her — who for years 
had tried to save her, for he loved her dearly. 
And the letter, with this chapter, we send to the 
writer, miles away, that he may know that the way- 
ward, giddy, whirling, careless, beautiful, thoughtless 
girl he loved, for all she was not true to herself, 
was taken to a quiet grave by ones who have kind 
hearts, and who will never reveal his secret, for 
thus do those fraternally bound by each other. 

She has gone, poor, heart-wrecked, desolate- 



Prologue. xi 

souled, beautiful one. Let us hope to the care 
of those who will not pluck to destroy — who will 
fold her in loving embrace, and keep her with 
renewed purity for the one who so loved her, so 
kindly wrote to her, so well wished her, yet whose 
honest love and kind interest had so httle weight 
with her here. 

Her trunk was full of finery, and cards and pic- 
tures, and letters from the gay and thoughtless — 
full of odds and ends of a poisonous festival ! And 
in a little box, as if sacred, the picture of father, 
mother, a sister, and two brothers. What shall 
we do with them ? Send them home ? They know 
not where she was, or is ! They only know she is 
away, but under what name, what doing, alive or 
dead, they know not, for all they have often sought, 
as we know. Shall we tell them, or carry the secret 
with others and others we hold to the grave ? What 
would our readers do ? What would be right ? 

A hearse and a carriage. At dusk, or nearly. 
Steadily we moved on down the street, meeting 
thousands. We put her in a plain coffin, for her 
life had been too plain of joy to mock her corpse 
and her great agony with a gilded casket. The 
beautiful one she had she despised — would not 
preserve — would not confide to the keeping of the 
one she loved and who loved her, so infatuated was 
she with the life she wanted to lead, so we would 



xu Prologue. 

not insult her corpse with the hate of her hfe ! 
She rested — but oh! that sad, heart-wrecked, pity- 
pleading face seeming to cry out from its perishing 
stillness : 

"O God! O man! Give — give— give ! Oh! 
give me back to that Hfe, that love, that truth, that 
purity, that heart, — that all that would have been 
my salvation ! O God ! pity me, for the world does 
not ! And give me rest, if I cannot have that hope, 
that faith, that bliss, that happy future I might have 
had but for careless wanderings." 

Over the river we bore her away. We met others 
like her on the streets, Uttle caring or dreaming 
who was in the hearse ahead, or the carriage fol- 
lowing. We took her away, as they will be taken. 

If the graves of the lost ones could cry out, 
who could listen to the terrible wail? The love 
and passion-songs of earth — the discordant uni- 
sons of perdition, sufficient of themselves to curse 
minions and hold their souls down to agony. Oh! 
the present — the future ! The minute — the Eter- 
nity ! O Father in Heaven ! give us all will and 
power to save, but no heart to wreck, to destroy ! 

We buried her as the sun went down on this 
beautiful Saturday Night. And we rode slowly home 
as the hearse went its way for another, or to wait 
an order ! 

And we looked out of the carriage window as 
the dead one can look out of the window of the 



Prologue, xiii 

past to see where she mistook the road ! And we 
saw people hastening to and fro — this way and 
that, eager to reach home. Poor girl — she was 
eager to reach home ! So she went uninvited — 
glad to rest in the grave, anywhere^ rather than ir 
her wild, heart-rending, soul-harrowing thoughts. 

Well — she is gone. God be kinder to her there^ 
than she was to herself here ! Fearful was the load 
she took with her ! Every flower a thorn — every 
ramble a walk with fiends — every reckless daUiance 
a garment of torture woven on earth with the bright 
side out, to be worn there, with the stings piercing 
the soul. 

And God pity her parents — and him who loved 
her. She is at rest : the waters of the river, and 
the rack of the torture that drove her to death may 
purify her — we hope they will. 

To-night we are going on a visit. To the bedside 
of our friends. We will kiss them while they sleep, 
and they will not know we were there. We will 
straighten the coverlets over the hearts and to the 
throats of those we love — will kiss them again and 
pray God to keep them all in the right path. And 
we will go for hours before we sleep to the bed- 
sides of those miles and miles away, and see which 
are to be lost or to be saved — to the bedsides of 
those who sleep in sin and reckless, imloving pas- 
sion, and kiss them once never so softly for the 
mothers and fathers who have lost them forever. 



xiv Prologue. 

Then to the sleeping forms of those who have lost 
loved ones in the terrible whirl, and whisper of the 
meeting Over There, where the truants will return, 
and then in the cribs, cradles, and beds of those 
who have good fathers and mothers to watch over 
them, and will with the loving and the living look 
with joy and pride on the sleeping ones, who Httle 
know in their childish dreams that while they sleep, 
while all is still, warm hearts are beating and tear- 
glistening eyes are looking and praying that they 
may live for those who most truly love them — 
from God to man, and not be taken to the grave 
as was the poor, storm-tossed, heart-wrecked, beau- 
tiful child of misfortune we in sadness helped bury 
this Saturday Night. 



INTRODUCTION, 




I HIS is Saturday Night. 

With others, in general, the labor of the week is 
ended. All over the land are weary men, and weary 
women and dear children who have homes, and dear 
ones who have none. 

"Well, what of them?" 

Only this : they need more true, earnest friends than they 
have; they are the toiling ones, who deserve kind words, and 
who should, who will, be kinder to each other. 

Long years have we suffered and battled for ideas, principles, 
and rights. By this ordeal we have learned to think. And to 
think of others. Of working-men, all over the land. Of weaiy, 
worthy, patient wives. Of children ; of the good and the bad, 
everywhere. Now, as GOD is our judge, we do feel kindly to 
all men; we feel more than a deep, truthful, earnest, enduring 
interest in those who would be happy; who would live to a 
purpose, who would have homes here on earth, and glorious 
happiness in the beautiful Land of the Leal where we hope to 
rest some day forever. 

Saturday Night ! and others are at rest. Perhaps in the hours 
this night before the old week dies, we can write something 
which will make men and women happier, and homes happier, 
and loves stronger, and children stronger to live for a great and 
good purpose. Would to that Great Father we are not one 
bit afraid to meet, and who has given us such a full faith for a 
happy and useful future, we could talk as one would sit of an 

(XV) 



x\i Introduction. 

evening and converse by his fireside with friends dearly loved, and 
in whom real interest is felt, — to all the wives, the children, the 
working-men of the land. 

But this we cannot do. 

And so, faithful pen, with which we have written more than a 
thousand of columns, and millions of words, will you aid us in a 
little work each Saturday Night ? They tell us you are mightier 
than the sword ; and we believe it. Therefore we choose you as 
our friend, and enlist you in the work of labor while others rest. 
And so sit we down to our labor. With a heart warm and 
full of love to those who really wish to be good, and true, and 
loving, and happy, we hold thee Heavenward, that the sunbeams 
of earnest interest from the beautiful spirit Home may rest on 
thy diamond point, and that good influences may be in our heart 
direct from those with whom we hold such sweet communion, 
that the words we write on the cofi&n-lid of the dying week 
may make better those to whom this heart-written volume is 
dedicated. 

And do not, good home ones who sit by hearth and fender ; 
who know the depth and purity of earnest love ; who with us are 
often weary, think ill of us for this plain, homely writing. We 
would not dictate, nor compel you to think with us. But we 
would see you all happier, and deem it no wrong nor cause for 
shame to sit down while others rest, to write from the heart of 
an earnest man, who has known grief, sorrow, labor, struggle, 
privations, and success, kind words to all, and especially to the 
ones to whom this volume is dedicated for reading on all the 
morrows, as we begin this our earnest home-work Saturday 
Night. 

Thine for the Right, 

M. M. POMEROY. 





SiTTrNO Side by Side. 

'HE Bain! the Eain! 

How it patters on the panes, runs down 
in rivulets, as if the windows were sorry 
and in tears ! Our work for the week i^ well- 
nigh finished — perhaps the work of our life 
will be finished this Saturday Night. 

It will be for many; and the tears of sorrow 
3 (17) 



18 Our Saturday Nights. 

for the loved ones will patter like rain-drops on 
strained and grief -crimsoned hearts. 

How the old memories are recalled by inci- 
dents ! Near a score of years ago ! How time 
comes and is lost in the mist of the past ! In a 
room not so large nor so nicely furnished as this. 
No gas-burners holding back the curtains of 
darkness, but a simple lamp. 

It was Saturday Night. 

She sat right there — on a little ottoman. We 
sat right here, as it seems. Never a picture so 
distinct. It rained ; and the drops danced and 
spattered as they were storm- whirled against 
the panes in that blessed country home. She sat 
there, we here. It was not far from here to 
there, nor does it seem an hour since thus we 
sat. And yet it must be. Men cannot suffer so 
much in an hour ! 

She was beautiful. Her eyes were unlike any 
others we ever saw. She talked vrith them, and 
every word was in spirit-melody, "/ love you^ 
darling.^'* Do you wonder memory is faithful ? 



Sitting Side hy Side, 19 

Her hands were in ours. They were such soft, 
white little hands, who could help kissing them? 
We thought them the most beautiful in the 
world. And her eyes — they talked to us so 
eloquently! And her lips — none like them in 
all God's creation. Purity, fervor, love, sweet- 
ness, devotion, confidence. Earnest trusting and 
quiet heart-rest — these were the unwritten 
volumes her lips told as we read, from their red 
readiness, while the rain pattered much as now. 
Years, years, years; but still that night! 

We sat and talked as others have and as others 
will. The sky was cloud-covered, but not our 
hearts. It was very, very dark without, and the 
storm howled as if in envious anger at the picture 
within, and spent its spattering venom on rill- 
coursed panes in vain. What we talked of, or 
how long, we cannot tell — yet we can. It was 
of the past which seemed so short — the present 
which was so bright for all the darkness outside 
— the long-coming future across the broad waves 
of which we launched many little boats, and were 



20 Our Saturday Niglits. 

very happy to see tliem sailing away to distant 
isles we had been told were 'way out in the ocean 
of the future, and to be found by somebody! 
The isles existed only in that direction, yet some 
folks send their ships in all directions ! And the 
farther they sail the further therefrom. Alas! 
there are many ships idly cruising, wrongly 
mated, never nearing the beautiful groves of the 
sea, but at last sinking from sight while the 
waves roll on, and other boats or ships sail over 
that spot perhaps to sink just beyond! 

But we thought of these things while the rain 
pattered and the wind in gustful fever raged 
without. So close she was to us. Yes — hand 
and heart — lip and life. 

"How the wind blows and the trees wail! Is 
it not a fearful night?" 

"Yes : are you not afraid?" 

"Afraid? IN'o, darling; for you are here." 

She wore no diamonds, nor was her garb of 
silk. We had no houses, lands, or wealth, but 



Sitting Side hy Side. 21 

never was boy or man so rich. Her eyes seemed 
lil<:e portals of Heaven, from which came most 
wondrous light of love, and not gentler ever was 
nod of beautiful flower than the silent, soul- 
sealing kiss on forehead then so gently given. 

No matter how wild the storm, how dark the 
night. Hearts that are truly heart-warmed 
never feel the outside cold or pang of poverty. 

. . It is late. The storm is over. My 
darling must rest. As the storm has gone, and 
the stars are coming, so will troubles go and joys 
come if we but live for the within, but not in 
selfishness. 

Closer and still closer. Yes, very soon will 
we come. And, now, darling, this kiss, — 

"Good-night, loved one, good-nigM! 
But ere from tliee we part, 
Take tMs one kiss of love — good-nigM! 
It teUs liow dear thou art." 

The morrow came. . . . They found her 
asleep! The little hand was on the pillow; the 



22 Our Saturday Nights. 

once red, now pale cheek rested on her hand; 
the lips parted as if to smile. So they found 
her when came the morrow; so they told us. But 
she slept in a little narrow coffin. The physi- 
cian said she passed away instantly, from over 
excitement of the heart. 

"Good-niglit, loved one, good-night! 
But ere from tliee we part, 
Take tMs last kiss on earth — good-night I 
It tells how dear thou art." 



Many the Saturday Night have we sat by 
a little grave looking into the eyes which live 
forever. And she ever seems to us as then, 
and we even say, — 

" Yes^ very soon we will come ! " 

And when the wild wind roars and the 
storm-fiends hold revels in air; when the 
great drops patter on leaf and rock; when 
the trees in the forest near by bend in terror, 
toss their limbs, and seek to prostrate them- 



Sitting Side hy Side. 23 

selves before the Power of the elements; 
when others sit by little fires or side by side, 
we love to sit there by that hallowed spot, 
and talk with her as of yore. She is not 
dead. Ah, no! She was too young — she is 
at school with God, waiting our coming. And 
for years we have been ready, and mayhap 
we can go home some Saturday ISTight like this. 
We know she is waiting and wondering why 
we do not come; and that she will wait till we 
come, and then will have been found that 
beautiful isle we missed on the ocean, or rather 
which we did not start from shore in search 
of, for our pilot was taken. 

Sometimes the clouds gather very, very dark 
over our life, and we go away — no one knows 
where. And we sit beside that little grave, 
hold her hand in ours, look into her eyes, and 
launch our little ships as we did years ago. 
And the memory of then — the hope of then 



24 Our Saturday Nights. 

makes us brave and stout of heart. And we 
try to be good, for slie was good, and to live 
so that when we cross the ocean of sleep between 
us, and step to meet her coming, she may not 
be ashamed of us. 

When the work comes for us to do, we do it, 
just as we told her we would. That Saturday 
Night we were very poor in all save hope and 
pluck, and it is hard to lift sympathy away from 
such as the good, the loved, and the trusting 
as that night sat with us while the rain beat 
as when we began this chapter. These rain- 
storms are stepping-stones to the hallowed 
past, and they are laden with the resolves and 
promises made that night before the Great 
Eternal. And but for others we would wish 
that there would come a beating rain and 
a storm on whose wings we could ride to 
meet her, and in honor of whose memory 
we write a little chapter under her angel influ- 
ence each Saturday Night. 




n. 

Little Tin Pails. 

,0D bless the little tin pails! 

To-niglit we saw them going home, — 
a thousand and more of them. They 
were carried by men who toil — by the working- 
men, who are sneered at, and snubbed, and 
jostled against, and pushed aside by the gilt- 
edge fashionables whose hands are soft and 

(35) 




26 Our Saturday Nights. 

whose hearts are hard. The little tin pails went 
out this morning, and they went in to-night. 
The man who had one in his hand swinging by 
liis side, was w^eary and foot-sore, just as we 
have been a thousand times, and no one to pity 
us, save the one who waited our coming, and 
the God who has pity for all who need. 

"We saw the laborers go by this morning, 
their little pails full, their step quick and 
elastic; for it will not do for laboring men to 
be late ! The rich, who carry furs and gold- 
clasp purses, and who pet their poodles, may 
be late or not go at all; but the honest man, 
with hard palms and an uncertain future — he 
must be on time. 'Way up stairs, down cel- 
lar; in the close, sticky, ropy, thickened air of 
the tenement house, where humanity is huddled 
like sheep, their little pails were filled. A wife 
arose while her tired husband was sleeping "just 
a moment more," and Avith silent step walked 
the floor till the scanty meal of the morning 



-* lAttle Tin Pails, 27 

was ready. Then she called him, and the tired 
man arose, wishing he did not have to go forth 
thus early. And while he ate hurriedly, the 
hand he once so loved to kiss filled that little 
pail. A slice or two of bread, a little cold meat, 
some salt and mustard, and perhaps a piece of 
pie or cake ; mayhap an egg, or cold potatoe ; 
and perchance, in a little cup on top the pail, a 
pint of coffee. Then the knife and the spoon 
were slipped in, and he hurried away. 

Work, work, work! hour after hour. Think- 
ing of this and that; of the past, of to-day, of 
to-morrow. Hammer, saw, pound, brush, stitch, 
file, drill, shovel, lift, watch, strain muscle and 
strain mind. Hours go by — noon comes. The 
little pail is welcome treasure. It comes at hour 
of rest, with its fill of food. The tired man eats, 
and he thinks of home and the loving hands that 
filled his little pail, and his heart grows strong ; 
and when the noon hour is over, he works and 
works, and he works for her and for them, and 



28 Our Saturday Nights. 

for a better home, and a time when to rest a 
day is not to rob the loved ones. 

And he looks back over the years to the time 
when he wondered if she loved him, and to the 
Saturday Nights when he hurried home, and 
washed his face, and his hands, his neck, his 
body; when he put on his best, and no matter 
how tired, hastened to meet her, to see her, to 
put his hand in hers, to take one, two, three, — ■ 
a score of kisses from the lips so loved, and to 
look, oh ! so far down into the depths of the eyes 
which were his choicest mirrors. She was 
young then. Now she is old or growing old. 
He works in the shop. She toils in the house, 
and, perhaps, goes out to labor, to help him 
earn a home. 

Monday — Tuesday — Wednesday — Thursday 
— Friday — Saturday! Six days of toil, of 
waiting, of working, of hoping, of doubting, of 
hard labor for the loved ones, and the life all 
prize. The little pails go and come, day after 



Little Tin Pails, 29 

day, till they build houses, stores, churches, 
towns, cities, countries ! And they last often 
after those who carry them have gone home to 
the land of the leal, and the rest that knows no 
more disturbing. Up in shops, 'way up stairs 
and down cellars, on the streets, along the 
wharves, here, there, everywhere, they go and 
come, till they have worn out the laborer and 
enriched the employer. 

And the men who carry them, and all who 
toil, are the ones who build the country and 
finish the town. The miser looks at his gold 
or his bonds ; the bondholder rides in his carriage, 
quaffs his wine, lolls back on his sofa, sports 
his jewelry, counts his bonds, figures on his 
income, pays no taxes, and lives like a lord. 
He builds no houses. lie erects no stores. 
He piles not one brick above another till a 
beautiful improvement be made ; but he robs 
the little tin pail of all it earns, and empties 
the sweat it holds Saturday Night into the 



30 Our Saturday Nights. 

crucible of Congressional protection, then pours 
out perfumery for himself and his loved ones, 
who are mincy, and nobby, and stylish, and soft 
of palm; who wear silks, and catch their skirts 
in hand as they pass the little tin pail lest the 
robe of aristocracy be touched with honest spots. 
We do not like the mincing worshippers of 
poodles, and the ones who sneer at the laborer 
and rob him of his earnings. 

For an hour we have seen them go by. Little 
tin pails, more precious and worthy than dia- 
mond necklaces. The ones who carry them seem 
tired, as we are tired from over-writing. God 
guide those who carry them to happy homes, 
and give the wear}^ man a night of rest. And 
to him we say, God knowing we mean but 
good,— 

" Go home and rest. Hang the pail on its nail 
or stand it upon its shelf. Then draw off your 
boots, if the chores be done. Kiss your wife 
as you did years ago, when, on a Saturday Night, 



Little Tin Pails. 31 

you told her you loved lier so dearly. Call back 
the love -light. J3e good and kind to her. Rest 
her palm in yours. Smooth back the hair from 
her brow, and hold her cheek to your neck as 
in days of the past. She has worked all the 
week, in her room — busy, busy, ever busy, 
for woman's work is never done. She has not 
had the company you have. She has counted 
the hours, waiting your coming, for the home 
of the poor is sometimes lonely. Be kind to 
her, love her, talk to her, read to her. 
Read this chapter to her, and tell her you are 
trying to make your home and your loved ones 
happy. Save your money. Beautify your home, 
be it never so humble. Do not squander it for 
rum or in dissipation, to weaken your strength, 
shorten your days, and embitter the final hour. 
And try, working-man and brother, how much 
you can do to make home happier, and our 
work will be to help you." 








III. 

Little Homes and Loved Ones. 



IKE tlie stars of God, they are scat- 



s' tered all over the land. Little homes 
and loved ones, where men and women 
and children are far happier than they think 
for! To-night marks another Saturday Night 
fold in our record — one more shortening of 
the programme of life. All the week we 
(32) 



Little Homes aiid Loved Ones. 33 

have worked till both brain and body are 
tired, weary, and rest-needing. All the week 
in the great city — hard walls, with their glass 
eyes on either side of us — hard floors to the 
city under feet — hard hearts and selfish ones 
sifted in with the mellow and liberal ones, 
till never was there a more wonderful kaleido- 
scope than that of life in this wrestling-ground 
for those who struggle to please the beggar 
of Mammon. 

Rich and poor all about us. And which are 
the happier ? God knows ! We know the brown 
stone fronts, the marble fronts, the expensive 
palaces, are all well enough ; but they are filled 
with more furniture than happiness. Dollars 
bring care and old age to the heart. They lead 
into dissipation, into recklessness, into living foi 
those who pass by to envy rather than for those 
who kiss a fond o-ood nio:ht! 

Shoddy and aristocracy, selfishness and snob- 
bishness, ignorance and duplicity, extravagance 
(3) 



34 Our Saturday Nights. 

and unliappiness, make the set, and tiresome 
is the dancing when people live for their 
eyes and the eyes of others rather than for 
their own hearts. 

The happy homes and the humble ones. 
The little homes and the loved ones. Where 
labor has a friend, honesty an advocate, love 
a votary, and life a noble purpose, there you 
will find happiness. The rich yawn, and gape, 
and drink wine, and grow weak, thin of blood, 
and lean in relish; they follow fashion to 
the emasculation of vigor and zest for the 
enjoyable that springs from love; they sit at 
the card-table, dress for the opera, dream of 
stylish sensations, grow life-languid, pause and 
sigh for the lusty, vigorous manhood and hap- 
piness that homes with the laboring and the 
loving. 

The poor envy the rich their fine clothes, 
fine houses, handsome carriages, wealth of jew- 
elry, and life of ease. But the rich are the 



Little Ilomes and Loved Ones. 85 

most envious. A thousand times have we 
heard them sigh for the health and brain- 
rest of the man who labors to support his 
loved ones. The contents of our hearts, not 
of our safes, make us rich! 

" How much did he leave ? " asked a man, 
when the millionaire died. "Half a million," 
said one. " A million," said another. " Two 
million in bonds," said the third. " / know ! " 
spake a laboring man, as he sat on his work- 
bench, eating his noon-time lunch from a lit- 
tle tin ^ail. "How much?" asked they all. 
"How much did he leave when he died? — 
all he hadP^ 

And the mourners returned from the tomb, 
drying their eyes by the way. And they went 
to their lawyers for consolation, and retorted 
the memory of the dead man till they ex- 
tracted the last grain of gold, hated each 
other, and cursed him forever that he left 
them no more! 



36 Our Saturday Nights, 

That was liis wealth ; that was what he 
worked for to put in the coffin with him. 
The petted calf was fatted and died for the 
benefit of the f casters — the worms! 

That was their rich man. Ours is another 
man. "Who?" We will tell you before the 
Saturday Night be gone. He is a working- 
man. He is a laborer, with look of health, 
hard of palm, but mellow of heart. He works 
in a shop or an office. He lives to live and 
make others happy. He goes and comes at 
stated hours. He leaves the echo of a hun- 
dred Idndnesses in his home as he goes forth 
to his labor. He leaves a kiss on the lips of 
his little ones to keep them warm, and on 
the lips of his wife to make her heart light 
and keep her from saying cross words; he 
takes a kiss as he goes, and all the hours of 
toil thinks of and works for the dear ones 
of the little home and the loved one. 

All the day he pounds, or files, or saws, 



Little Homes and Loved Ones. 37 

or sets type, or feeds a press, or strikes in 
the forest, or in the mines, finding gold for 
the bondholders; or labors, as others labor, 
for the welfare of the loved ones and the 
making of their homes more beautiful. He is 
good, and true, and brave, and earnest; so- 
ber, careful, kind of heart, and loved, oh ! so 
dearly, by the one who tremblingly said " Yes," 
to his asking once, the time now agone. Lie 
is our rich man. He works and he sings, 
he toils and he whistles, he labors and he 
saves to make home happy and add to the 
comforts of his little retreat. And the wages 
are a rich reward that labor brings, for its hon- 
esty is its wealth. And his home grows in 
beauty as he nears the grave, and his loved 
ones follow him on his journey to that land 
where angels are our guides, and stars the 
lights of God's eternal illumination! 

This week a book; next week a picture of 
some beauteous scene, or of some man who 



38 Out Saturday Nights. 

lias won a place in the hearts of the good; 
and next week a newspaper or magazine to 
interest each week. Then a carpet, a curtain, 
an easy-chair, a mirror, a flower-plot, another 
picture — home beauties and comforts rather than 
the heavy eyes, bloated faces, and rotting man- 
hood of those who go, even in their own 
advance, to ruin by the torturing paths of 
dissipation. 

Wife, have you a husband like om- rich 
man? Then love him. Forgive him when he 
stumbles, help him up when he falls; throw 
your arms about him, aid him, care for him, 
cheer him, encourage him in the good, and 
be happy, no matter if your home be a lit- 
tle one. "We are all happier than we think 
we are. We are all happier than others! 

There are working-men who hate us, who 
know us not, who do not know how ear- 
nestly we think and strive to benefit them, no 
matter how we differ politically. We would 



Little Homes and Loved Ones. 39 

see them happy, tlieir homes beautiful, their 
earnings saved by themselves; and to all these 
men, true kings of nobility, we wish pros- 
perity and happiness, and loved homes to call 
their own each and every Saturday Night. 





IV. 

An Emfpt Heaese. 

) ,|^T went by not five minutes since. A 
black, cold-looking lonesome hearse, 
drawn by two sorry-looking horses, fol- 
lowed by two old-looking carriages, as it re- 
turned from the City of the Dead over yonder. 
The rain fell in a sort of di'izzle, cold and sick- 
ening, as the driver, wrapped in an old water- 
(40) 




An Empty Hearse. 41 

proof, bent his face to the storm and urged his 
team to a little faster trot, as if anxious to 
get futher from the grave and to hasten 
home to rest with his loved ones. And the 
mourners were anxious to keep up, and their 
steaming horses did. 

As the hearse passed, we saw by the rollers 
on its floor — they were far apart — that a large 
coffin had rested thereon; and in the sanctum, 
when it was reached, we stopped writing to 
think. And in this wise ran our thoughts: 

That driver must have a singular life. 
Every day going with his peculiar freight, 
each day the better learning the road to the 
spot he will in time reach, as well as any of 
his customers, no matter whether he ever saw 
the final city or the road leading thereto! 
"Wonder if he ever counts his trips as he sits 
on his box waiting, and wondering what num- 
ber his last will be, — the trip but one way for 
him, two ways for the rest? 



42 Out Saturday N'ights. 

And is it not a singular journey when a 
man must go alone? No guide! Ko friend 
along to help kill time, for time has helped 
kill him. No asking how far to this station 
or that; in fact, no starting on the trip till 
liours after you have reached your final desti- 
nation ! 

Who was it? We do not know. Millions 
do not know. Millions do not care — do not 
even care to care! The empty hearse dodges 
up Broadway, of less account than a milk-cart. 
Somebody has gone home this Saturday Mght, 
and the great world cares no more for the 
sorrow which rests in the home once his than 
for the breeze which passed yesterday. But 
there is a vacant spot in his home — a wound 
so deep in some heart or hearts, surely God 
must pity and heal! No matter how poor he 
was, somebody loved him. Perhaps he was 
sinful, — we all are, — yet somebody loved him 
and looked for his coming; and when the last 



An Emj^ty Hearse, 43 

look came, and the unspoken words died out 
as he died, and the last pressure of his hand, 
hard though the palm might have been, was 
felt; and when his soul cut loose from earthly 
moorings to soar away to the infinite, then 
went the hot leaden plummet of sorrow, oh! 
so deep into some heart, which may God pity. 

This death is a terrible thing to us; not be- 
cause it is death, but because it is the parting 
with life and from those who have grown into 
and all around our hearts as sunshine plays 
through branches and rests on flowers. For 
the future we have no fears. God is mercy 
and mercy is God. God is the concentration 
of Faith; and those who rest on Him and His 
promises never will fall or sink. The future 
is all of joy to us — all of life, love, goodness, 
usefulness, and higher intellect, with greater 
responsibilities and capacities for enjoyment 
and none for sorrow. It is not death, but the 



4A Our Saturday Nights, 

parting with life and loved ones for a time, 
that bothers and sets thought in a quiver. 

To die and be forgotten is something — yet 
it is nothing, for those who forget us will be 
nothing to us over tJiere! To die and bid fare- 
well to earth will be but ceasing to look upon 
a miserable sketch and feasting our eyes upon 
a more beautiful picture than man ever saw; 
to come like a bit of sunshine upon those who 
have gone before us to look upon it, and to 
be gladdened, when those who sincerely mourn 
come to tap us on the shoulder as we are gaz- 
ing on the beautiful, saying to us, with golden 
smiles and love-lit eyes: " Darling^ I have 
come ! " 

But it is terrible to die and know that you 
are dying. The loved one or ones go and 
come. The room becomes tiresome. The 
couch has no rest in it. The familiar walls 
seem as if already in the possession of another. 
Some loved one comes with drink or food to 



An Emjpty Hearse, 45 

sustain life; she pushes back the hair from 
an aching brow; she moves like an angel, 
with light, careful step, for her shoes are of 
love; and she touches so gently, and her 
pure lips touch your hand or face with their 
wondrous electricity; her eye is, oh! so sad 
and tearful, as she waits like one in treble 
agony for that robber whose approach she 
fears, for he will take "all the world" from 
her. 

And to leave her! — that is the agony! Who 
will care for her as the one who is dying? 
Another will in time, perhaps, and perhaps 
not; after the birds have twice twittered their 
vernal odes, — after the flowers have twice 
listened thereto, — some one else will be dear 
as you have been, and kiss the lips you would 
not now have him kiss for all the world — for 
they are hers! Another hand will hold hers 
Saturday Night — or hold his; another eye 
will call the love flames to hers ; another breast 



46 Our Saturday Nights, 

will be the pillow on which your loved one has 
so often rested; another arm will hold to the 
heart the dear one you cannot bear to part 
with. And then all the little keepsakes you 
prize will be emptied into some old box or 
into the fire, and she will find no joy in the 
little things which once were so prized by 
both as dottings left by happy passing hours. 
And this is agony to those who love. And 
it is agony to think that, perhaps, no one 
else will care for your loved ones as you did, 
and that they may suffer some day. Then, 
weary one, how much fuller the cup of love 
she will bring with her sunshine when she 
comes to surprise, as you wait to welcome in 
the beautiful land of the leal ! 

Before long the carriage of dignity will 
call for us — for writer and reader, l^ot this 
Saturday Night, but before some of the next 
ones. And who will miss us? Wlio of all 



A71 Emjpty Hearse, 47 

the world will be sorry? We know; and 
because we know we shall be missed, we care 
not to die just yet. But some day the hearse 
will call for us; the long box will be shoved 
into it; we shall be taken to the silent city, 
and in time forgotten unless we work well 
and leave good deeds to call us to mind. 

Their tears will fall, and we know. it. ]!^ot 
mock tears, but real ones, bursting up from 
the heart, for a friend will have gone. And 
then somebody will hold up our garments, 
look at them, and give them away. Some- 
body will look at the watch we carry, and say, 
" 'Twas his. " And somebody will wear at 
parties the little cross we wear, emblem of 
our faith, and forget, perhaps, that its purity 
is not its only worth. 

And somebody will claim and have the 
thousands of beautiful presents, keepsakes, 
mementoes, and purchases of our sanctums, 
but will any one prize them as we do? And 



4:8 Out Saturday Nights, 

men of law, executors, and administrators, 
will open drawers, safes, desks, and read 
hundreds of letters and documents, finding 
in them nothing of value, as they think, all 
the while wondering what we kept them for. 
And they will find political records, reputa- 
tions of friends and enemies, letters and 
documents in c}^her, deeds and titles to 
property, unpublished chapters of life, foolish 
letters and good ones, scraps, trinkets, etc., 
no one can tell the use of. And they will 
find scores of packages of letters marked, 
"Private — to be burnt, unopened, by a friend 
when I am dead." Will they heed our request? 
Yes — if they are friends. And all the little 
things, trifles in themselves, but volumes 
each, will be tossed aside. Little buttons, 
bows, ties, pieces of ribbon, shells — hundreds 
of precious things to us, will be thro^vn away; 
for those who know not their history know 
not their worth to us, as stepping-stones, when, 



A71 Emjpty Hearse, 49 

after all our work is done, each day we walk 
in fancy back the river of time to the days 
of long agone. 

Well, it is well we can not all live forever; 
there would be no more good folks up 
yonder, nor bad ones down there. This would 
be a tiresome world if eternity was life 
here! Thank God, there is a home over 
the river — an end to this work which wears 
us out — a time to quit — a hope for the future, 
and a land where we shall meet the loved 
ones, the dear ones, the worshipped ones who 
have been called to their rest before us. And 
thank God that while we live, all of us can 
make others happy if we will; we can fit 
ourselves for happiness hereafter, can mellow 
the mould in which we must rest, by being 
truer, nobler, and better than we would be but 
for those we love and who love us and our com- 
ing each Saturday Night. 
4 




V. 

Home on a Shuttee. 




was a very cold Saturday Night, 

only a few days ago. The wind howled 

like some watch-dog from the infernal, 

hunting for one absent. Signs creaked as they 

swung, and rich men on the street hurried by 

with fur-wrapped ears and well-gloved hands. 

All the week gone but this. An hour more 
(50) 



Home on a Shutter, 51 

labor and we will close the business desk, 
and finish the' week with a Saturday Night 
article. First, we must make a call six blocks 
away. 

Out in the cold. How the air dances in to 
warm by our body as we walk along. Five 
o'clock and thirty minutes by the great clock up 
there over the City Hall : later than we thought, 
so we hurry across Chatham and up Centre. 

From a cross street they come, four men, 
stout, rough-clad, hard-palmed, honest-hearted 
men, with regular step and sad faces — four 
working-men, to us unknown. 

Four men carrying a shutter from some 
window. And on it is a man, dead, — one hand 
under his head, as if he slept. He sleeps, and 
he sleeps well ! Over his face is thrown a 
well-worn coat he used to wear. It does not 
keep him warm, but it keeps the wind from 
driving the hair into a horrid wound over 



52 Our Saturday Nights. 

his temple, from which blood and brains ooze 
slowly, as if sorry to leave their home! 

"■\Vho is he?" 

"Michael O'Brien, sir. He was just killed, 
sir." 

"How, and where!" 

"He was working with us, sir, down on 
Pearl Street, on a new building, when a cap- 
stone gave way, sir, and took poor Michael 
in its fall; and never a word spoke he since. 
And we are takin' him home to his wife 
and children, and it's a sorry night they'll 
have of it, for they loved him sol" 

And with the four went another to lend 
a hand to those in need. Went to a working- 
man's home on another street. Into the door, 
up two flights, slowly — slowly, for the stair- 
way is very narrow. 

"What is thg matter?" 

"Open the door wider, for it is all sorrow 
we bring. Steady, men — on that chair — on 



Home on a Shutter, 53 

tliis — softly, now. There, now, we are home 
with him, and God pity those who mourn ! 
Words are of no use here. Even curses would 
not be heard. Tear off the coat — kiss the lips 
— kiss them again and again; lift your head 
and look into that face, upon that wound ; 
press back the hair from the brow you have 
so often kissed. Stand back, men — stand back! 
She is the one that needs pity, for hers is the 
heart that now drinks in sorrow as never before. 

Good-night, friends ; we will go now. iN'ever 
mind thanks; never mind who we are, — sim- 
ply a man who came to aid, not to gratify 
curiosity. 

Down stairs and into the street. Sobs and 
wailing behind us. Her voice, and the voice 
of two little ones, now fatherless, and face to 
face with death. God pity them 

The table was ready to spread. The room 
was being put in order against his coming, but 
not in this way. The work of the week nearly 



54 Our Saturday Nights. 

ended; waiting for him and his smile, his 
greeting, his coming with his earnings, — a little 
present for each of the little ones, and a warm, 
rich, honest love-kiss for the one who is now 
leagues away in the terrible valley, heart-bro- 
ken and in agony. 

All the week he toiled, as we learned, early 
and late. A strong, honest, healthy man, 
working to better his home and make his 
loved ones happy. His hands were hard, bnt 
he was good. He was nnused to sharp tricks, 
to speculations, to legalized robbing ; he was 
simply a working-man, and his loss is not felt ! 
Not felt ! God above us ! The capstone that 
fell and crushed his life was a million times 
lighter than the loss she bears or the sorrow 
she knows! 

He was but a laborer. He toiled all day. 
He earned of dollars but few, but he earned 
them, and that is better than to steal them. 
He was but one man among many, but he was 



Home on a Shutter. 55 

a man, a husband, a father. lie lived in no 
palace, but he had a happier home to go to 
nights than many a man of wealth. Hour 
after hour he worked. Stone after stone he 
hauled up. Ilis mark was left on many a spot 
where men of labor leave their marks. But 
now he has gone. 

]S"o band will follow him to the grave; no 
long line of empty carriages filled with men 
chatting of horses, of bonds, of houses, of wine, 
of women, of nothing, will follow him home 
but loving hearts will mourn for him, for he 
deserves tears. 

Fold and put away his clothes. Put back 
that plate ; leave back the knife, fork, and 
spoon; no more set his chair to the table, for 
he has gone home where there are no Saturday 
Nights terrible as this is to the mourners. Then, 
weeping one, live with his memory. Life is 
an enigma. Deatli is the reality. We meet 
here, we become acquainted, and then the 



56 Our Saturday Nights. 

one most loving goes to make a home over 
there. 

Think of his kind words, his good acts; 
think of the good he did while he lived; 
forget the hasty words, the unkind ones, if ever 
he spoke them. And you who have to-night 
the forms of loved ones in your homes waiting 
for the tomb, God pity you. And you who do 
not have death with you to-night, may you 
not have it for years to come. "Welcome the 
tired ones as they come fi'om the shop. Give 
them a kiss and a kind word. Make home 
pleasant, and call to its sacred reach the loved 
ones. Let those who labor make their homes 
happy, and their home ones happy; and, when 
our work be done here, may all who are 
deserving live in memory loved, as was poor 
Michael O'Brien. 

Who of the rich ever think of the poor? 
Wlio of them will remember kindly, and gi^'e 
good thoughts to the ones who toil? They 



Home on a Shutter. 6Y 

have hearts and loves, as have the rich, and 
quite often better ones. They have wives, and 
little ones, and aims, and desires. They are 
deserving, as all are who labor. They make the 
city and finish nature. Yet few there are who 
care for the working-men, the ones who live in 
tenement houses. If the rich would treat those 
who labor better, the world would be the gainer, 
and therefore do we ask those who are favored 
by fortune and unjust laws, when they go 
home, to give a thought to the poor ones, the 
weeping and heart-broken ones, who are always 
with us, and oftener more deserving than those 
who pass them by with a sneer from Monday 
morn till Saturday ISTight 





YL 



OuE Teeasijees. 




EALTH! 



Before the sun went liome this Satur- 
day Night to tell God who had striven 
the hardest for heaven the week past, a mil- 
lionaire rode by. He lives in a palace — 
we in a cottage. He has his coachman, out- 
riders, servants, and waiters ; we have not one. 
(58) 



Our Treasures. 59 

lie hoards dollars as we do tlie kind words of 
onr friends, while his bonds are many, as are 
the cnrses we could heap npon those who, hj 
legislation, made him rich and onr friends poor. 
He is a millionaire ; we are not. He lives at 
ease; we live by labor. 

He dines at six. Silver and gold are npon 
his table. A professional cook tempts his 
wine-wet palate with viands none but the rich 
can buy. Servants, with sharp eyes to detect 
the slightest wish, hasten to hand him this and 
that. His wife sparkles the diamonds which 
robbed her eyes of love's wondrous lustre when 
she took them as the price of her heart ! Jewelry, 
lace, silk, satin, plush, velvet, damask, silverware, 
gas-light mellowed by tinted shades of glass or 
porcelain, broadcloth and echoes of dissipation, 
— grand, costly, and envied in Ms home. He 
eats and he drinks. He dines and he wines. 
He rides and he thrives. Servants open doors, 
brush the lint from lappel and body, the dust 



60 Out Saturday Nights. 

from hat and boot. lie gives cliecks and lives 
high, does the millionaire. And his children 
are cared for. by professional nurses. They call 
him governor. His wife, by forms ceremonial, 
empties the purse he fills, and is happy in 
her rouge, her diamonds, her carriage, her 
toilet, her establishment, lier position in that 
society which is kept within proper "bonds." 

"Happy?" 

No, she is not happy! Wives by marriage 
and wives by brevet ! He lives here ; he revels 
there, where wine and dissipation pave the 
way for further chapters but nearer home. 
He rode by in his carriage, and a thousand 
turn to mention and envy him whose home is 
rich, but far from heart-warmed. Yes, envy 
the millionare. And you may, but the glitter 
of his coach, the style of his carriage, the pranc- 
ing of his horses, the sparkle of his diamond- 
covered wife, the rich odor of his anticipated 



Out Treasures, 61 

dinner, have no charms for us, and we envy 
him not. 

Wealth! 

Yes, we are rich. Onrs is a cottage, or a 
cabin, if you will. It is up-stairs — on the 
ground floor — in the city — in the country — of 
wood — of stone — of brick. Marble for the 
rich — brick for the poor! We have no car- 
riage, no horses, no servants, no wine, no 
haughty or petulent keeper of the purse to 
purchase from with gifts when love hungers 
for the beautiful fulfilment! But we have a 
home. The rooms are not large. The furni- 
ture is not rich; but in that home is a greater 
treasure than the millionaire ever possessed. 
Our Treasure. Our Darling. Sworn to love. 
Bond paying golden interest hourly. Dearer 
treasure than money ever purchased. Our 
Darling! Pretty soon we shall put the pen 
in its place and go and meet her. Shall walk, 



62 Our Saturday Nights. 

for we liave no carriage. And shall walk fast. 
And we shall meet her at the door, and bless 
God for the kiss of welcome. And as we 
walk side by side to the chair set for ns, can 
draw our treasure to our heart, and say, "I 
love yon, darling." And she welcomes ns Sat- 
urday IN'ight, and every night; and her pure, 
true, trusting, and beautiful love keeps us from 
wandering. And we sit by our little fire, hand 
in hand. Diamonds never threw light as do 
the eyes of our darling, for they light from 
soul to soul, making noonday of otherwise 
night. And she gives us, oh! such tempting 
welcome. No servants are near to listen and 
tell. The rattle of playthings on the floor 
disturbs us not, for we knew it, and 'twas as 
God intended. And as no one hears, we sit, 
palm to palm, and thus come the words of the 
heart : — 

"Darling, / love you! All the day have 1 
toiled, till hand and brain be weary, but I 



Our Treasures. 63 

never forgot you — your love or your kisses. 
I went forth in the morning to labor. Per- 
haps it is but little we have, but, thank God, 
darling, it was honestly won; we love each 
other and are happy. I try to be good and 
honest, and, guarded by your love, succeed. 
And no temptation yet met has won me from 
my vows and from you; no place has lured 
me from my home and the loved; no wish 
liave I had for something beyond the confines 
of my happy dominion. All the day, and all 
the week I have toiled there ^ as you have 
cared here^ and see, darling, how our home 
grows more and more beautiful as your taste 
displays the little things purchased with the 
earnings of my hand and brain. 

"God bless you, darling, and make me always 
good, and kind, and true, and earnest, and de- 
serving of the love you give me. Here is my 
home; here is my heart ; here is vnj treasure; 
here I live as there I labor, and every hour 



64 Out Saturday Nights. 

not given to toil is to thee and happiness. And 
as I go I will think of thee ; of the time when 
you said "Yes" to my wooing; and never will 
I do that which would pain your heart, and 
then I shall ever be happy, and love you alone, 
my darling, queen of my heart-warmed home." 

And her hand presses mine; her eyes are 
like rays from the eternal, as she looks the 
words tongue cannot speak. Her lips are so 
sweet and warm, so full of that wondrous elec- 
tricity which all know not of ; her cheek rests 
on my shoulder, and from her heart, from her 
loved lips, come these words : — 

"God bless you, darling, for your manhood 
and its unsullied bringing. The day has not 
been long, for I hnew you would hasten. And 
I was happy, as here and there my hands found 
employment. And see how nicely I have fixed 
this, and that; for thus you like them, as thus 
I fixed them. And, darling, I am so glad you 
have been good and true to us both. I am 



Our Treasures. 65 

glad if my love is the shield that keeps you 

from falling when tempted, as we all are. 

You have toiled all the day, now rest with 

me, — on this breast, by these lips, in this heart 

of mine, for all are yours. Come, darling, to 

the feast, and none so sweet as by love alone 

invited! You are home, where all is yours, 

with never a regret, or a wish for another. I 

love you^ darling, and I pray Him above to 

give us hearts to know our treasures^ — to know 

who are the truly rich ; and I pray Him to 

spare us to enjoy all there is that is truly 

beautiful in life till we rest again united 

where there is no Saturday Night. 
5 





YII. 

About a LrrrLE Giel Whose Name is Lulu. 

tUST the faintest little tap at the door. 
" Come in ! " 

Sitting in an easy-chair, watching 
the burning coke in the grate making faces, 
and half-listening to conversation, we were 
thinking of the poor ones who had no easy- 
chairs and cheery fires. The door opened 
- (66) 




Ahout a Little Girl Whose Name is Lulu. G7 

slowly; with hesitating step there entered a 
young girl of eleven years. 

"Please, do you want to buy some hooks 
and eyes?" 

"No, I guess not," said a gentleman, who 
was busy in another part of the room. 

"Please, I sell them very cheap, and my 
mother is very poor." 

And while he was calling the attention of 
the good-hearted lady of the house, we took 
up the conversation : 

"Come here, little girl." 

And she came, — a sweet-faced, modest lit- 
tle thing, in her hand a little paper box. 

"What have you to sell?" 

" Hooks and eyes, and a belt-buckle." 

"E"ot much of stock, have you?" 

" No, sir, not much ; for we are too poor." 

"How do you sell them?" 

" Five cents a card." 



68 Our Saturday Nights. 

" It is after dark ; isn't it late for little girls 
to be out?" 

"Yes, sir; but we have no other time." 

"Who is we?'' 

" My little sister ; she is nine years old." 

Another faint little teeny tap at the door. 

" Come in I " 

And in came the little sister, with a smaller 
box. She was a pretty little child, — her eyes 
seeming just like the eyes of a dear little 
pet who calls us papa, and kisses us such 
loving welcome, and whose years are no 
more than the little one's before us. 

"Come here, little one." 

And she came and stood beside her sister. 
Who could help putting his arm around her 
little innocent form, and drawing her closer 
to him? She had no silks, but her face and 
eyes were enough to win any heart. 

"Come, sit on our knee. !N"ow, tell me all 
about it. What is your name?" 



About a Little Girl Whose Name is Zulu. G9 

« Lulu. 

"That is a pretty name. I like it. Where 
is your papa?" 

"He was killed in the army, in a battle." 

"Where is your mother?" 

"She lives in a room on East Eleventh 
Street, sir." 

"What does she do?" 

"She sews when she is able to and can get 
any work." 

" Is she sick sometimes ? " 

"Yes, sir, a good deal. And she can't sup- 
port all of us." 

"How many little ones has she?" 

"Three, sir, — my brother, who is thirteen, 
my sister, and I." 

" What does your brother do ? " 

"He has a place in a store, and earns two 
dollars a week." 

"Does he board at home?" 

"Yes, sir." 



70 Our Saturday Ntghts. 

"And you and your sister sell little things?" 

" Yes, sir ; after we get through helping 
mother, we sell about one hour each evening." 

"How much have you sold to-night?" 

"Fourteen cents' worth." 

"How much have you sold?" — to the sister. 

" Thirty-five cents, sir, with what you paid 
me." 

"Quite a trade. ^N'ow, I want a card of 
hooks and eyes to comb my hair with, and a 
belt buckle to put on my wrist." 

The little girl said it was funny, and sold 
us the articles, when the conversation was re- 
sumed : 

"What does your mother sew on?" 

"She embroiders and makes aprons and lit- 
tle things for any one who wants her to." 

"Is she very poor?" 

" Yes, sir ; we didn't have any bed, nor stove, 
nor furniture, when we moved in where we 
live now." 



Ahout a Little Girl Wwse Name is Lulu. 71 

"Wlien was that?" 
"This winter." 
"Was it cold?" 

"Yes, sir; we nearly froze some nights; 
but we slept close together, and mamma took 
care of us. 

"Do you go to school?" 
"]^o, sir." 
"Why not?" 

"Please, sir, I have no clothes good enough 
to wear. But mamma will get me some, some 
day, and I wont look so ragged, and can go." 
"Can you read?" 
"Yes, sir, in the third reader." 
"Well, Lulu, tell your mamma when she 
is ready to send you to school to have you 
come here, and I will buy you all the lit- 
tle clothes you want for one year, for you 
put me in mind of another little drl " 

And the good lady where we were that 
evening said also,— 



Y2 Our Saturday Nights, 

"Yes, Lulu, he will do it, for he said he 
would; and I'll make you a nice little hat to 
wear." 

And two little tears came into her eyes as 
she tried to say, "Thank you." 

Looking upon a fruit-basket filled with oranges 
on a centre-table, we wondered if she had had 
any lately, and asked, — 

"Have you had any oranges lately?" 

"Yes, sir; a gentleman gave me one a 
good while ago." ^ 

"Here is money to buy a nice one for your 
brother, your sister, and your mamma, and 
yourself." 

She dropped her head as if thinking, and 
then, furtively looking us in the face, said, — 

'^ Please^ si/r, Td rather huy some cahes for 
sujpjperP 

" Haven't you been to supper \ " 

"No, sir." 

Then we thought how just like a man it was to 



About a Little Girl Whose JSTame is Lidu. Y3 

not thinJc, and asked where she lived more par- 
ticularly. And she told us, — a few doors east of 
Second Avenue, on Eleventh Street, just oppo- 
site a neat little bakery, where she could get 
the cakes. 

Putting on hat and overcoat, with the two little 
ones we went down stairs from the cheerful room 
into the street, to find, first the bakery, then the 
mother. And the little ones told us how their 
papa was killed in battle ; how they once had a 
plenty. And little Lulu said God was the best 
friend she had, and her mother next. She said 
God would always care for the poor if they would 
trust him, and that she prayed to him every night. 
And she went to Sunday-school, and tried to be 
a good little girl. 

Here was perfection of faith ; and we could 
not help thinking that the blessed Jesus, when 
on earth, could not help saying, "Suffer little 
children to come unto me, and forbid them not, 
for of such is the kingdom of heaven." 



74 Our Saturday Nights. 

"We found the bakery, and a pleasant-voiced 
woman waiting on customers therein. Then we 
crossed directly over the street into a tenement 
house, and, guided by the little ones, found the 
room where they lived. And we found a middle- 
aged women, worn with care. But she was good 
— her eyes and her face and her words told it. 
She made aprons and all such work. And she 
told us, a stranger, that once she lived in Lodi, 
Seneca County, New York ; that her husband 
was a music-teacher. And then she told us that 
he went South for his health ; was drafted into 
the Southern army, and killed in battle. Then 
she came North, destitute of all save her little 
ones and faith in God. 

Then we asked Lulu to bring us an apron 
for a lady the next afternoon at five o'clock, and 
went out into the busy street, and from there to 
meet in council brethren of the mystic tie. 

And all the night we were in dreamland ; and 
pure-eyed little girls were, with tears in their eyes, 



Alout a Little Girl Whose N'ame is Zulu. 75 

trying to say " Thank you,''^ or were nestling by 
our side. The next day we left the city for the 
West, two hours earlier than we intended, and did 
not see Lulu. But she did not forget us, as the 
following extract from a letter will show : 

"251 East Thirteenth Street, ) 
New York City, April 13. J 

• • • "Little Lulu came promptly at five 
o'clock, with a beautiful apron made expressly 
for you and in her sweet little hand a pink she had 
bought for you. She felt quite disappointed at 
not seeing you. But Lizzie bought the apron 
for you and appropriated the pinlv. She came 
again, last night, with another apron, which I 
sold for her, for two dollars to a gentleman below. 
She says when you return she will come and see 



you." 



Saturday Mght. — The hand on the watch-dial 
before us near twelve. Sitting by the bedside of 
a sick friend, we write this in lieu of our usual 



Y6 Our Saturday Nights. 

reveries. It is a simple little story we have told 
above, exactly as it occurred, as any one can learn. 
And from our other city in the "West, we write, 
wondering where is the little Lulu, and if her 
faith in God is still the same. And we think of 
the thousands and tens of thousands that are of 
God's poor who are uncared for. Children of 
working-men and working-women ; little orphans, 
who never know of parental love ; little wander- 
ers to eternity, who have no one to buy them 
oranges, cakes, dolls, playthings, or keepsakes. 

In thought to-night we have been far away, 
looking into tenement houses ; into garrets, cel- 
lars, and hovels ; into little beds in orphan asy- 
lums ; looking into the faces of the poor and the 
innocent who battle daily with fate. How few 
there are who know how others suffer — few 
there are who care. God bless the Christian 
mother who suffers ; who taught her little ones 
to pray, and who is winning a crown to wear in 
the beautiful Eternal Land. 



About a Little Girl Whose Name is Lulu. 77 

And we have all the night been thinking of 
the ones who profess to be Christians and to care 
for their fellow-men; who spend thousands of 
dollars for fashionable churches, cushioned pews, 
swell ministers, and solid silver or gold commun- 
ion service. Little do they care for the poor and 
the needy. Their eyes look up the tall steeples 
they have built, but seldom down to the bare feet 
and ragged garments of the " tears of God" that 
plead for care and notice. We love the poor 
and do not care for the rich. We have no money 
for spires with gilded domes, or tinkling inven- 
tions to suspend therein, nor for high-priced 
pews, with elastic backs and velvet trimmings. 
Time enough for these when we turn hppocrite 
and from softness of brain try to deceive Deity 
by studying a fashion book rather than kneeling 
before Him in earnest, secret prayer. 

Be kind to the poor ! They have few friends 
on earth — especially if they be white. God made 
them white ; they are not to blame ! Christians 



78 Out Saturday Nights, 

pray for them, then over church doors write, " No 
admittance here ! " They erect elegant sleeping 
places for themselves, while drowsy ministers are 
spinning their cant and style, but never think of 
beds for the little ones who are homeless. They 
visit caucuses, visit election places, visit political 
meetings, but have no time to dry tears or mellow 
the hearts of those who need sympathy. 

To all the mothers, we say, "Have faith." And 
to all our little friends, who read this, those 
words : " Think how good your fathers and moth- 
ers are to you, and rejoice that you have a home 
and some one to love you, and always speak kindly 
to the poor, even if you can give nothing to make 
them happier, and we shall be glad to know that 
if we have done no good, at least we have done 
no harm or wrong this Saturday Night. 




VIII. 

Such a Little Coffin! 



) XT was not twice the length of the sheet of 
ii/frk P^P^^ oil which we write this article ! 



^^' A little coffin — a little bit of a coffin, 

not large enough to contain half the playthings 

a little girl we know of has to amuse herself 

with. 

It was not a casket, or burial case with silver 

(79) 



80 Our Saturday Nights. 

handles, white satm, silver fringe, and glass sky- 
light to the home of the departed. All these are 
for the rich men — the bondholders, whose chil- 
dren are said to be better than the little children 
of working-men. It was simply a little plain 
coffin made from black walnut, and it was being 
carried into a house on Canal Street as we walked 
home this Saturday Night, very weary, from our 
work. 

No one else noticed it. A poor man came to 
the door when the undertaker rang the bell. 
He looked sad and lonely, just as thousands we 
know would look if a little coffin should be 
wanted in their homes to-night! lEundreds 
hurried by; who of them thought of the 
mourners? 

Slowly we walked home. Somebody was in 
the depths of sorrow. Who it was we knew not. 
We could not keep from thinldng, and after 
supper we went back to the house and rang the 



Sii^h a Little Coffin! 81 

bell. The man, with a sad face, came to the 
door. 

"Good evening, sir. Can a stranger, who 
means well, be of service to you?" 

"Oh! thank you; but it is not much a stranger 
or a friend can do. Who are you? Why come 
you here? We have never met." 

"Simply a friend. I have nothing to do; I 
saw the little coffin come in; perhaps I can do 
some good — and I felt like coming. That is 
all." 

"Oh, sir, you are welcome! But it is all 
sadness here now. Come this way." 

And we walked into a little room where the 
little coffin was. A little boy, not four years 
born, rested there. The coffin was on a table. 
The sweet little face, so waxen and fair, did 
not seem like death, but for the little rosebud 
beside the pale temple. The great, big tears 
came down so fast over the brown face of our 
6 



82 Out Saturday Nights. 

friend, — for, if in trouble he was our friend,— 
as he said, — 

"He was our only treasure, and we did so 
love him." 

"Where is his mother?" 

"She is sick, sir, — worn out with nervous 
excitement, — and is in our room, almost heart- 
broken." 

And we found her weeping bitterly, and as 
we sat by the side of the lounge on which she 
reclined, we could only say, "Indeed, I am 
very, very sorry for you." And we saw a little 
pin on his bosom, till then unnoticed. 

"Are you a Mason?" 

" I am, or I try to be one." 

"Well, brother, the light in the East is 
still bright; those are the most favored who 
are earliest called from labor to refreshment. 

Just a little coffin. I^o one would notice it 
in a city like this. The hearse passes along, a 



Such a Little Coffin! 83 

few carriages try to keep up as tlie driver hurries 
tkrougli the tangled teams and over horse-car 
tracks. Then he stops, a jam of carriages is 
formed, and a policeman says, in a coarse voice, 
"Move on, move on!" lie might have 
seen it was but a little cofSn and spoken a little 
more kindly. No one could have spoken so 
harshly who mourned. The omnibus with its 
load, hurried by ; a carriage, filled with laughing 
ladies, hurried by, and those on its cushioned 
seats never cared to look at the little coffin 
even for one little minute. A drayman saw 
what it was and kindly waited a moment ; his 
eyes seeming to say, "I am sorry for some- 
body." 

And so they bore it away over the river. 
The hearse on the ferry-boat stood beside a 
market wagon, on which the driver sat whistling 
an opera air. A dandy-looking swell stood 
with cane in hand, one foot on the hub of the 
hearse, looking with half-satisfied eye on the 



84 Our Saturday Nights. 

pretty ankle of a girl who was leaning and 
lookino: over the railinoj of the boat. The 
coffin was not so small as the ankle, but he could 
not see it. 

And when we reached the other side, all 
hurried off. The crowed jammed, and men 
swore. Some went this way, some that. We 
never saw their faces before, as we remember 
— never shall again! But somebody will see 
them some day. They will be in coffins, looking 
up to Him who sees little coffins as well as big 
ones. If this had been a big one ; if there had 
been four horses with nodding plumes, a silver- 
trimmed casket, instead of a plain little coffin, a 
long string of carriages, half -empty, — folks would 
have asked who it was that was thus keeping 
ahead of us, and at tea-tables would have told 
the news. And folks would have asked how 
much money he had left; that is, how much 
good he might have done but did not! 

But it was only a little coffin ; three carriages 



Such a Little Coffin! 85 

followed it; it was the child of a working 
man, but, with it, to God, went the grief -stricken 
hearts of those who mourned because their only- 
joint treasure had been called home. Never 
mind. He who is so good is the great never- 
dying echo of "Suffer little children to come 
unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is 
the kingdom of Heaven." And He will always 
welcome the little ones to liim, kiss the tears 
from the eyes of those who mourn, and send 
them back to life's duties, while He cares for 
the jewels in that Heaven we all hope for. 

Only a little coiSn ! Who ever tliinks of 
them ? Little caskets contain the most precious 
treasures. The buds are promises of flowers; 
and when the bud is taken we mourn, for we 
do not know but it might have become the most 
beautiful flower of all. 

God pity those who have, with tear-wet eyes 
looked upon little coffins. The hope of the 
father and the mother, the one who has so 



86 Our Saturday Nights, 

often been kissed and carressed, is no more. 
The hearts of those who brought it thus far are 
dark with grief. And down into the little grave 
buried with that little coffin, go a thousand 
hopes, dreams, castles, ideas, and links, connect- 
ing us with and drawing us on to the future. 
Indeed, few there are who know how much the 
little coffins hold! The agony of the mother 
who has once before suffered; the fears of the 
father who held her head, and by her pillow 
watched, with kind touch and gentle kiss ; the 
hours of quiet talk over the future of the new 
guest to love's table; the hopes, fears, watch- 
ings, care and affection God gives us for the 
little ones, — all are packed into that coffin, till it 
seems as if He must love the little one just come 
to Him for the years of heart and hopes dashed 
to pieces, which come like prayers of mourners 
beseeching His eternal care. 

Little coffins. 

Little caskets. 



Such a Little Coffin! 87 

Little treasures. 

Chrysalis and Buttei*flj. Promise and Re- 
ward. Buds here, flowers there. Little graves 
here, little crowns there. The little coffins 
are dear, for there we gave to rest our little 
and our loved ones. And where they sleep 
are little hillocks, which also mark the wounds 
on our hearts. And the little hillocks will last 
after we have gone to the Eternal Land, where 
only can our wounds be healed! 

And the little hillocks are everywhere, — city 
and town, cemetery and graveyard, — crowded 
together, and singly, they are to be found. 
And when we see them in the quiet cities of 
the dead, we feel sorry for those who there 
hid from sight the little coffins, and say, 'way 
down deep in our heart, God bless and make 
happy the little ones there at rest, and all who 
mourn that they are not with us, who so loved 
them, and carried to them presents, and love, and 
kisses, and kind words every Saturday ISTight. 




IX. 




Kind Words feom "Woman's Lips. 

GAIN has the angel folded up the 
book of seven daily chapters, and 
stored it away with the thousands of 
volumes waiting God's opening thereof, when 
He will be ready to examine our records 
after our final Saturday Night has come and 

we live but in memory. All the week we 

(88) 



Kind Words from WomanHs Lips. 89 

have been working and thinking. "We have 
watcihed the little tin pails spoken of in a for- 
mer chapter, go and come, and seen many 
a man with one in his hand turn his eyes 
to look at our office as he passed by, and 
step in to purchase the paper wherein we 
spoke of his silent morn, noon, and night 
companion. 

And to-night we relate a little incident, not 
much of itself, but volumes for all. The man 
of whom we write will pardon us for this 
article, for telling to thousands of others the 
simple tear-wet story he told us as he sat in 
a chair by us, his little tin pail on the floor 
beside him. He was a great, strong man — 
strong enough to have thrown us out the 
winpow upon the gas-lamp below; but his 
frame trembled, and his lip quivered as he 
spoke. 

"My work is done for the day. I want to 
talk with you as a friend, and I thank you for 



90 Our Saturday Nights. 

giving me this opportunity. My name is • 

Adams. I work in a foundry on Street. 

I read your article about little tin pails, and 
all the men in the shop heard me read it at 
noon. It was a good chapter, and they wanted 
me to thank you for writing it, for it told 
just what we felt. "We are working-men ; our 
hands are hard and grimed, but our hearts 
are warmer than many who sneer at us. The 
sledge, the file, the sand, the hot iron and the 
cold, leave their marks on us, but we think, 
and work, and think. And when a man speaks 
for us we love him. 

"But it is not of this to-night. You have 
troubles of your own — all have. But I wish 
to tell you I work hard and try to save. I 
love my wife. Years ago, when she was 
younger than now, I loved her; and I have 
always tried to make her happy. We had no 
home then, as we have now. I worked and 
earned our home ; these hands and these 



Kind Words from Woman^s Lips. 91 

muscles earned it. It is not a rich home, but 
it is ours, and sometimes very happy. 

" Sometimes when I go home I am very 
tired. It is hard work to labor as we have to. 
And some days I am sick and tired, and my 
head aches, and my bones ache, and I do not 
feel strong. But I work, for we must eat. 
Her and the babes must eat and be clad.- 
And I go home tired. And sometimes 
she is glad to see me, and sometimes she is 
cross and scolds. She says I do not love her, 
when I do. And she seems not to care for me 
And she speaks hot, sharp, bitter words. 
They would not hurt if others said them, but 
when they come from her lips, I feel sick and 
tired of life. I try to be good and kind, and 
mean to do right. All the way from the shop, 
I wonder if she will be kind or cross when I 
reach home. Sometimes she is real good, and 
her eyes look so loving, and her hand feels so 
warm and full of life as she places it in mine! 



92 Our Saturday Nights, 

Then my heart grows big, and full, and 
brave, and I could die for her or go back to 
the shop, tired as I am, and work all night 
for her and for them. And then I am so happy, 
and our home is so happy ; the evening is so short 
I wonder where it went to ! And we lay our 
heads on the same pillow, and sleep close to each 
other, loved and loving. 

" But, pshaw ! why do I tell you this ? I would 
not, but something tells me you know it all. 

" And sometimes I go home, and she is not so 
kind. And there is not on^ bit of love-light in 
her eyes, and she seems so cold ! If I am sick 
and tired, I could almost sink. Of course she 
does not know how hard I toiled all day. 
The hours go by slowly sometimes. And 
when she is cross I am cross. We eat our 
supper in silence, and I go out. And I walk 
the street, looking at windows and envying 
those who are happier than I. And I go to 
some place where drink is sold, and instead of 



Kind Words from WomarHs Li^s. 93 

taking a social glass with a friend and going 
home early, stay and drink, and spend money, 
and grow reckless, and don't care, and stay 
out till midnight, for I hate to go home when 
it is not pleasant there. 

"Don't blame ns who drink at times. We 
dont want to ; but sometimes — sometimes, 
you know, our home ones do not give us kind 
words, and we feel heart-sick. Sometimes I 
stop for a moment to take a glass of ale, or 
beer, or something warm, with a friend. We 
have worked hard all day, and think we need 
it, whether we do or not. And we talk a few 
minutes, for it is little talk we do in the shop. 
And then she scolds, and gives me red-hot 
words, and they burn and blister. She says 
I do not love her, when I do. And she scolds 
me for spending a dime or so, and acts as if I 
were the slave and she the monarch, and it 
drives me sick and crazy, and I don't care 
what I do. 



94 Out Saturday Nights. 

"To-niglit I am going home. I shall be a 
little late, but never mind. I wanted to see 
you — our friend — and to thank you, and to 
ask you to write more such articles, for they 
make us better. And I'll read them every 
Saturday Night while I live. I must go now. 
Good-night." 

God bless that man! — that worker. He told 
us his story, simple and plain, as we have 
given it, and we give it to-night to others 
knowing that many a good man has been 
driven to ruin by the one who might have 
saved him by using kind words. 

It is hard to labor all day. When night 
comes the mind is nervous; hard words are 
like molten potash to the weary husband and 
father, who has been annoyed and bothered 
all day long. Good wife, we would see you 
happy, and in behalf of those who are work- 
ing to make homes and to care for you, we 
ask for more kind words, for they are the 



Kind Words from Woman^s Lijps, 95 

sunshine of life, wliich will make home cheer- 
ful and happy, be it never so humble oi* lowly. 
Try them for a week, if no longer, and com-' 
mence with this Saturday Night. 





X. 

SxAGGEEiNa Home. 

rOD knows we are sorry for him! For 
^ve minutes we have watched him from 
our window. A stout young man, appa- 
rently thirty years of age. He looks like a 
working-man. We should say a man of family. 
See! steady there, with hand against the iron 

fence in front the house, step by step, stagger- 
(96) 




Staggering Home. 97 

ing along. Take care there — almost down. 
Now he crawls and staggers on. 

His clothes are muddy, as if somebody had 
been spattering him. His face looks haggard 
and distressed. He is going Jiome. Great 
God ! what a visitor to some earnest woman 
and little children waiting his coming, and 
here it is half-past eleven o'clock at night ! 
Poor fellow! going to ruin because it is fash- 
ionable. Here comes a kind policeman. 

" Halloa, old fellow ! what ails your legs ? " 

"Tired — very tired." 

" Where you live ? " 

" No. — Second Avenue." 

"Well, come along; I'll help you home." 

" And you wont take me in ? " 

To take in means to take to the police sta- 
tion. 

"No, if you come along quietly. This is no 

place for a drunken man." 

" All — right — I'm yer friend ? " 
7 



98 Our Saturday Nights. 

Arm in arm they went away. We do not 
know who that poor fellow is, whose home is 
hardly reached; bnt he is somebody. He had 
a mother, and how her heart would have 
mourned to have seen him thus! Perhaps it 
is to his mother's house he is going. Perhaps 
to his own home, if a drunkard's place of liv- 
ing can be called a home. If to a wife and 
childi'en that policeman is leading him, God 
pity them. Doubtless he has worked all the 
week. Most likely some good fellow, who is 
kind, and gentle, and loving, when sober. But 
now, what is he? A poor^ weak, helpless man, 
unable to care for himself. A sorrow and 
shame to his loved ones, a disgrace to himself. 

We do not know how much money it cost 
him to win this prize. But it cost something. 
Perhaps a dollar. Perhaps less. Better have 
thrown the money away and kept his manhood. 

Better have given his dimes to the little 
beggar children. Better have bought a little 



Staggering Home, 99 

picture or picture-book for his children ; a 
picture for his walls; a better hat than the 
one he wore; a pair of shoes or stockings 
for the little ones, who love him for all he 
goes down into such helplessness to their neg- 
lect; or a present for the wife who so often 
has cared for him in these plights, and who 
to-night will weep and mourn, and feel so 
discouraged, as she washes and combs and cares 
for the one she cannot help loving, for all 
his foolish weakness. 

God only knows what a true wife and 
mother suffers when her husband and the 
father of her babes has no honest pride and 
love of family to make him care for his home 
ones. And God pity the poor man who has 
given his heart in exchange for that eating, 
craving, burning thirst for stimulants, know- 
ing there is no safety under their influence. 
Every week he lowers himself deeper into the 
terrible well. He has friends, so-called, while 



100 Out Saturday Nights. 

his money lasts. But one by one his dollars 
go. Little by little his hope fades out. Ilis 
pluck and ambition become dull and blunted. 
He cares for nobody. His employer does not 
want an unsteady man, and pretty soon he has 
lost his place. A good workman, but too un- 
steady. The downward road is easier to travel. 
Blueness, or depression of spirits follow ; the 
home he has not made beautiful loses its at- 
tractions ; the wife is found often in tears, while 
sighs from a grief -laden heart tell that she 
lingers in the shadow of better days to dread 
the terrible future with a drunken husband. 

Once he was kind, and good, and manly. 
His eye never was clouded or dazed in its look. 
His lips were not dry and parched. His tongue 
was not thick. His breath was not so poison- 
laden and offensive. He lived other than in 
his throat. 

H he would only listen to us. Once we were 
very, very poor, even penniless. But we worked 



Staggering Home, 101 

and saved. We saw what money would and 
could do ; tliafc it bought pretty things for 
places of dissipation and made them attractive. 
And we saw that men loved to be in attractive 
places. And for fear we would be sick and 
without money we worked. And to make our 
home attractive we saved our earnings, till at 
last we made a sanctum more beautiful than 
any room we ever saw, and people asked how 
we did it. 

By saving our earnings and putting the 
money we might have spent in dissipation, in 
pictures, paintings, carpets, desks, sofas, tables, 
curtains, and little works of art. Thus we gave 
employment to working-men. We purchased 
the result of others' labor with the result of 
our own. We encouraged mechanics and art- 
workers, made our home attractive. Every dol- 
lar thus invested helped make a wall between 
us and dissipation. 

Once in Milwaukee, at a ball, a nice young 



102 Our Saturday Nights, 

man refused to dance in the set we were in be- 
cause we were poor. He was rich, or his father 
was. He thought nothing of expending five, 
ten, twenty, or even fifty dollars a night, treat- 
ing his companions. He was a good fellow. 
He was popular with girls and boys. Years 
passed. One day a bloated-faced man called at 
our Western office. 

"Don't you know me?" 

" No ; and yet we have met somewhere ! " 

"Quite right; I knew you in Milwaukee. 
Times have changed since then. You have 
grown rich; I am poor, and no one cares for 
me now. I want some work ; I have no money, 
— have eaten nothing to-day." 

" You are , but how changed ! " 

"Yes, I am he. And you will help me, 
wont you?" 

"Have you a trade?" 

"Ko; I never learned one." 



Staggering Home. 103 

"!N"o one cares for you now; do you care 
for yourself? '^^ 

"Don't ask me!" 

"Where are your old friends, — the boys you 
were so popular with?" 

"Oh, they have gone to the devil, or those 
who have not, have gone back on me — quit 
when I had no more money. But tell me how 
you got this fine office. When I knew you a 
few years ago, you were poor." 

"Well, I'll tell you. What you invested in 
dissipation I invested in books, pictures, and 
machinery. While you squandered, I saved. 
While you didnH care, I did. When I cared 
for myself, others cared for me." 

" Well, I see it ; but can you give me work ? " 

"No, you are not in condition to work. To 
give you a place I must discharge a good man, 
who is sober and trying to get along. This I 
cannot do." 

Pardon this diversion, but we ran into thinli 



104 Out Saturday Nights, 

ing of old times, and have been counting up 
our boyish friends, to know how many of them 
have succeeded, and the result makes us sad. 

W"e do wish the working-men would be more 
careful of their earnings. They would be so 
much happier, have better homes, be better loved, 
and we should not have had the chapter to have 
written we have this Saturday Night. 





XI. 




WOETH OF WoilAN's LoVE. 

NLY another week ! 

How short it has been ! seven days — 

seven chapters of light and happiness, 

of joys and sorrows, of hopes and fears, of 

trials and conquests, of births and marriages, 

of sickness and of health. But a little thins: is a 

week ; but it is a life to some, in the results it 

doth bring. 

(105) 



106 Out Saturday Nights. 

To-night we were made to feel sad, yet happy. 
On the way home we passed a woman in calico, 
leading by the arm a weak, tottering, trembling 
old man. His step was hardly a step ; he could 
hardly lift his feet from the pavement ; his face 
was wrinkled with the lines of ninty-one winters, 
while his scattered hairs were silky and white as 
the purest snow. 

And the woman was past the fifty. Her face 
was kind ; her eyes told volumes. The crowd 
on the Bowery turned aside as it hurried by to 
let the old man toddle on. 

" Good evening, good woman ; can we help 
you?" 

" Oh, no, thank you ! " And she looked so 
kindly at us. "We are almost home — a few 
steps farther; and you are in a hurry, — going 
home too, perhaps." 

Almost Home ! 

Yes, the old man, who little heeded the crowd, 
and who looked with mazed and puzzled gaze on 



Worth of Womaiii^s Love, 107 

the busy scene, was almost home ! A few more 
Saturday lights and he will be there with Him, 
and then he can walk, and run without stumbliuo- 
or other support than His. 

And we passed on, to think, and think. And 
we thought of woman's love, and the worth of it. 
How she cared for him— we should think her 
father. Perhaps he was cross and petulant years 
ago, if not now ; yet she was kind to him, and 
with care steadied his steps lest he fall and the 
busy crowd trample him under feet. And we 
thought of thousands and thousands of good 
women in difPerent places, who love, are good, 
and true, and pure, and kind ; who deserve 
happiness here and Heaven hereafter. 

All over the land we saw them as we walked 
home. The entire line of clouds seemed to be 
rolled back by some great hand as somebody said, 
" Look at them everywhere." 

And we did look into thousands of homes, —by 
the farmer's fire, and in the woodman's cabin ; 



108 Out Saturday Nights, 

by the sick bed and kneeling with grief-laden 
hearts and tear-wet faces, beside corpses and 
coffins. We saw them in calico and homespun 
by thousands, and they all told of woman's worth, 
love, and devotion. 

Little do men know of woman's sorrows, heart- 
aches, hungerings for love, temptations, and re- 
sistings. Men go and come. They are busy. 
Avenues of labor and amusement are opened to 
them, for they have power to open to suit them- 
selves. They plunge into business, engage in en- 
terprises, hunt, fish, sport, idle, dissipate, go and 
come, mixing, talking, eager to be interested. 
When tired, they rest ; but woman's work is 
never done, and she must labor on, a prisoner 
within close walls, like a caged bird seeing the 
world but not mixing therewith lest she be lost. 

We know of a home where a woman works 
cheerfully, for he she loves works like us. She 
wears cahco, and knows nothing of opera. Her 
heart is in her home, her loved ones ; she is 



Worth of Womaii^s Love. 109 

happy, for they all live for her as she does for 
them. And oh, the wondrous depth of her love ! 
She is by the bedside, the table, the chair, every- 
where. She is monarch of home — queen of 
hearts; and willing tributes do her subjects pay. 

Her hand stills pain ; her lips greet with such 
pure, earnest, loving kisses ! Her words are ever 
so kind and gentle while her life is not lost in 
selfishness. She is not a vain beauty, cold as 
marble, indifferent to others, caring only for 
herself, for position and the outward adornment 
of her person, tyrannizing over hearts compelled 
by the ukase of society to pay vows where none 
are due. But she is a good woman — a loving 
woman. A loving, affectionate, gentle, caressing 
woman a man always loves, and is willing to care 
for, protect and defend. 

We love a good, warm-hearted woman. J^ot 
one of these simple beauties who are gay, paint- 
ed, padded, befrixed and befrizzled adornings of 
fashion, without heart or true worth. Such are 



110 Our Saturday Nights. 

very nice to look upon, good to flirt with, nice 
to take to the opera, the races, the theatre, or to 
skirmish with when the coast is clear and willing 
ones seek for adventure, but they don't wear for 
keeps like the good, plain, sensible women who 
have hearts and whose worth is more than pen or 
tongue can tell. 

"Women would be better and happier if 
men loved them better and were more true 
to them. If men would strive as much to 
make home happy as they do to seek happi- 
ness elsewhere, the world would be better. 

Hours do come when men admit the power 
the worth of woman. !N"ot in sunshine so 
much as in shade and storm. When engrossed 
with business and rolling on the sea of such 
cess, we too often forget the ones without 
whom life would be a blank, and only fly to 
the havens and shelters, the love and gentle 
caresses of woman, when the waves are high 
and to remain abroad is to perish. 



Worth of WomarHs Love. Ill 

Then comes the hour when all admit the 
power of the weak. It is the care of woman 
which makes millions of homes beautiful, and 
makes love's palaces of laborers' cabins and 
farmers' cottages. It is the love we have for 
woman, — the love they have for ns as men, — 
that drives ns ahead to conquests and victories. 
The words kindly spoken, the smile of those 
we love, the commendation of those we res- 
pect of women, make men of all who are not 
debased, and draw our hearts to them with 
irresistible power. And as we see them day 
after day patiently, earnestly toiling to help 
others walk; as we see them leading the weak, 
aiding the unfortunate, and by the wondrous 
power of their God-given love, and the magic 
of their smiles, caresses, and prayers, we wonder 
that all men do not pay more tribute to the 
worth of woman's love. 

Theirs is not the forum nor the hustings. 
We do not love those who strive for mascu- 



112 Our Saturday Nights. 

linity. But the good women, — the plain 
earnest, home women of the land, regardless 
of church or sentiment political, we would 
see all men more attentive and kind to, for 
our happiness ends in their love, as the week 
ends in Saturday Night. 





XII. 

Funeral Kext Door. 

the great city made by man! 
''^Funeral next door!^^ 
"Who?" 
"Don't know!" 

The hearse stands with rear end to the 
house. Four horses, with nodding i3himes, wait 
the coming of the corpse and the order of 
8 (113) 




114 Out Saturday Nights. 

the undertaker to go ahead. Carriages line 
the trottoir, or sidewalk, waiting to take up 
the mourners and the expectants. Down the 
steps they come, pall-bearers with the coffin. 
Silver handles, silver screw-heads, silver plate, 
hot-house flowers, and embroidered pall-cloth 
folded in hand. Now gently — all right! 
Steadily the little rollers on the floor of the 
hearse revolve, two by two the corpse-bearers 
step back — all in — close the door — step up 
a little, driver — mourners' carriages fall in 
— all right ahead. And away to the silent 
city goes the man who has just traded houses, 
giving the work of a lifetime as boot-money! 
Expression inelegant, but truth undeniable. 

'^ Not know who he wasf'' 

Of course not. He lived there; we live 
here. This is the city where each person 
minds his own business, and meddles not with 
the affairs of another. This is city style. 
The wall wliich divided us might have been 



Funeral Next Door, 115 

an hundred leagues thick, but no further 
through than it was, so far as they and us 
are concerned. He was some man, or she was 
some woman, or it was some child. He lived 
up-town — down town — in a store, an office, 
a bank — somewhere. He might have been 
an ex-mayor, a millionaire, a gambler, preacher, 
editor, politician, statesman, speculator, knave 
or fool. We knew him not. He knew not us. 
And yet we have known him — he us. He 
might have been an enemy; perhaps a friend. 
He came at one hour, we at another. He 
arose early, we late. He rode or walked one 
way, we another. 

"Did he have a family?" How do we know? 
Sombody lived there, next door, but we never 
knew nor cared. Nor they for us. Kot long 
since there was a wedding party there. It 
miffht have been him or her who was of the 
party most interested. We do not know; were 
not invited. The other night there was dancing 



116 Out Saturday Nights. 

next door. We heard the music and the dancers 
as we turned the night key of our own door. 
And we, too, had a party, but the next door was 
not concerned. 

The occupant of the next house may have 
been the best or the worst man in the world; 
he may have been rich or poor, happy or 
miserable, old or young, married* or single, 
healthy or sickly; we know not. Perhaps he 
was poisoned. Maybe he killed himself. He 
may have died di'unk; we hope, sober. He 
may leave a wife and little ones to weep. 
Mayhap, a wife to rejoice that the physician 
or the undertaker saved her feeing a lawyer 
for a divorce! Perhaps he was an old miser, 
whose heirs rejoice at his death. And it may 
be, the cofiin contained one who was a wife, 
a mother, a sister. They live, or lived, next 
door to us, as we to them. They knew people 
— so do we. People know them, are friends 
to them. So we have fi'iends — and in a 



Funeral Next Door. IIY 

dozen days, or a dozen years, might have 
known, them and they us. 

The procession has moved out of sight. 
The undertaker's foreman is moving off the 
chairs brought by him for the mourners and 
friends who had been called together, for he 
or she had more friends than chairs in the 
house. More friends than chairs ! Let us 
count the chairs in our room. Sixteen and 
two sofas. Sixteen friends and two sofas. 
Who of us has sixteen friends, — we mean 
friends who have the pluck to stand by us, 
rain or shine, hot or cold, rich or poor, in 
luck or out? We have one friend — yes, thou- 
sands! And God bless them, as we would, 
if in our power. 

But not of them, but of him or her who has 
gone- They live near, yet we knew them not. 
So near and yet so far ! And so it is in the city. 
They live each side of us — overhead, under- 
neath. Yet we know them not. They may be 



118 Our Saturday Nights. 

Christians, Jews, infidels, deists, atheists, ran- 
ters, or, worse than all, Puritans; they may 
be good, bad, or indifferent — we know them 
not. The next door may be where lives a 
priest, a pirate, a printer, a physician. Perhaps 
it is a good house — perhaps a bad one. "Well, 
what of it? They mind their buisness. "We 
mind ours, and never quarrel. Yet, for all this, 
we at times wonder who lives next door; how 
he lives, for whom, and why. And we wonder 
were they really mourners or heart swindlers 
who attended the funeral next door ? 

If we could only look in there sometimes! 
But then they might look in upon us! How 
would we like that? And so we live in the 
city, known and yet not known, knowing 
and not knowing, friends and not friends; 
each intent upon his or her own business, not 
caring whether there be parties for joy or for 
grief, parties for business or pleasure, parties 
for revelling or mourning, so near us. But 



Funeral Next Door. 119 

this we do know: there was a funeral next 
door to ns, and some of these days we, too, 
shall be called home, and they who so near yet 
not so near, will, as we have done, look out 
the window to notice there is a funeral next 
door, and to mention it perhaps, if not during 
the week, when shall come Saturday Night. 






XIII. 
"Only Two Laborers Killed!" 



FEW lines told tlie story. 



"The passengers escaped unliurt — only two 
laborers killed." 

So the dispatch read in the paper this morning 
announcing a collision on the Central Eailroad. 
Only two laborers ! But wait a moment. Who 
(130) 



Ovdy Two Laborers Killed, 121 

were these laborers ? The trains met ; there was 
a crash ; the passengers escaped unhurt, and the 
only ones sent or called home were two laborers. 
The train passed on. Passengers talked and 
chatted. They read books and papers,, played 
cards, or slept. Loved ones behind them or be- 
fore them, waiting their returning or coming. 

Only two laborers killed ! Who were they ? 
What were they ? Where were they? l^o names 
given — no thought. Had one of Yanderbilt's 
trotting horses died or been killed, the telegraph 
and the papers would have told full particulars ; 
for is not the horse of a rich man of more account 
than the life of a laborer? A simple-minded, 
honest, toiling laborer ? 

Who was he ? 

We will tell you. He was a poor working-man. 
Day after day he toiled, early and late. Men 
rode over the railroad he helped build, and 
praised the enterprise of its managers, but never 
stopped to think of him who gave his health, 



122 Ov/r Saturday Nights, 

muscle, and very life to the work. lie was 
passed by as of less account than the little smile 
of a pretty girl or bcAvitching woman. 

But he was a man. Years ago he was an in- 
fant, and rested, as do the children of others, in 
loving arms. There was joy at his coming years 
ago. There were prayers of a loving mother for 
his health, happiness, and escape from tempta- 
tion. But where the mother is now we cannot 
tell; for he was but a laborer, and in the eyes 
of the rich they are not worth mentioning, 
except as cooks, washers, ironers, menders, or 
old women. Are they not the most blessed who 
die young ? 

Yes, she loved him, and wept when he went 
into the world. And her prayers followed him 
to protect, and he became a laborer rather than 
a loafer or a criminal, forgetting God and 
mother alike. And he toiled ; and in time he 
loved just as we love. His hands were hard, but 
do you not know his heart was soft, and kind, 



Only Two Laborers Killed, 123 

and mellow ? And by the labor of his hands he 
earned a little home, where to his heart he held 
the dear ones who w^ait in vain his coming. 

He was a laborer — he is now at rest, for his 
work is done. Somebody mourns. The heart of 
somebody will be made very sad, for this is the 
first Saturday Kight he has not come with his 
honest heart to love the dear ones of his little 
home. He toiled for others : such is the labor- 
er's lot. But when comes the resting-hour, lov- 
ing eyes watched his coming, listening ears wait- 
ed so eagerly for the familiar step, loving lips 
were put up to greet him, a tired yet loving 
breast was pressed against his own ; a heart all, 
all his, felt enraptured to know the laborer had 
returned. 

Somebody loved him and them. All the week 
has the home one worked and waited for him 
and the coming of Saturday Night. Many the 
plans for the morrow and coming week. Many 
the little stories of incident to be told as head 



124 Out Saturday Nights, 

and head on pillow rested, the heart beating in 
love's unison the while. 

Laborers love. And they have homes dear to 
them. And the eyes that look for their coming, 
the heart that feels their absence, kisses that 
greet them, are sweet as the dew of richer love. 
And when he does not come now, oh ! how 
terribly anxious will be the waiting ones. He 
comes not. That is his step — no ! Ah, here he 
comes — no, it is some one else ! And you may 
wait, and wait ; he was only a laborer, and it is 
not worth while to be in a hurry to tell his family ! 
Perhaps it will be best to bury him and say 
nothing, for he was only a laborer ! 

But there are breaking hearts in his home, as 
in others. The dream of life is broken. The 
hopes of years, the joys of a lifetime, the dread- 
ful and lonely future, the weight of a bitter- 
struck heart, now fill the place where was the 
laborer, whose name is not worth the space it 
would take in a daily paper I And you may 



Only Two Laborers Killed. 125 

shove back his chair from the table, return his 
plate to the pantry, pour out the full of his cup, 
leave his pillow from the bed, hang up, fold, or 
give away the garments he wore, search his 
pockets, and read the letters and papers he left at 
his little home — wander, oh so sad and lonely 
about the rooms, for he comes no more. That 
book he liked to read ; that picture he looked at ; 
the little presents his love-filled heart prompted 
giving to you, the keepsakes moss-covered with 
tender memories, he will never look at or talk 
over with you as you sit side by side; for his 
work is finished, he is at rest, and you who 
mourn are the ones we pity, and God knows how 
earnestly. 

Perhaps they will bring him home. In a 
rough box ; on a coarse board, with a few blood- 
stained clothes thrown over him; hair tossing 
hither and yon, eyes aglare and aglaze. May* 
be they will not care to bother with a dead la- 
borer, for he can be of no more use to the rich, 



126 Our Saturday Nights. 

and is to be liated because lie left loved ones for 
the living to look after ! 

But they will bring him, and go to their 
suppers — you to your mourning ! Then you can 
weep and pray. You may kneel by him, as we 
knelt for and to the loved and lost, till it seems 
as if the heart must and would break with agony. 
And you may look at his unspeaking face ; lay 
your hands on that forehead ; press your warm 
lips to his cold ones, and ask God to take you also : 
this you can do, if he was but a laborer ! 

Thank God the rich, who hold our notes as 
bonds which we must pay, cannot keep us from 
loving each other, nor from paying tribute to 
trusting hearts. !N'or can they keep the ones who 
labor from lo\dng each other truly, if their 
hands be hard, homes poor, and raiment scant. 
And if the rich do not care for us, we who are 
workingmen and laborers can care for each other, 
and live more for the dear ones who will mourn 
for us when we, too, are called to that rest which 



Only Two Laborers Killed, 



127 



awaits us, not only here, where those who are but 
laborers are unnamed and unhonored, but in that 
better land where the rich are not our masters, 
and where there is no Saturday Mght. 






xrv. 

SrNKiNa TO Eest. 

NOTHER week lias been called in. 

Another seven-day net of Providence's 

has been reeled upon the invisible, and 

its wondrous haul of good deeds and bad pass 

in review before the Power of powers, the 

Great Father of all. A few more Saturday 

Nights for us — perhaps no more for many who 
(128) 



Sinking to Best. 129 

will read this article; it may be no more for 
the weary, hard, and tired brain but for which 
this little smnming np would not be made. 

It is good to rest, and we are glad to have 
one night of the week for review — one night 
in which to look back at the hollowness of life 
— one little season in which we can look at 
the beautiful of it ; for there is beauty in it, 
though the terrible to-morrow, which promises 
more than it brings, sadly hides the perfection 
of days, life, and events. 

Since last we sat by the desk to write thus 
outside of politics or business, there have been 
many changes. Many a heart has been wid- 
owed, and many a sad pillow in the final 
earthly home marks where sleep the missed 
ones. Do you know there is something very 
strange about this life and death? We do 
not see why people so desire to live. From 
the cradle to the grave it is but toil, labor, 
sorrow, disappointment, and vexation. Were it 



130 Out Saturday Nights. 

not that we look for to-mOrrow to bring us 
happiness, or next week or next year to bring 
ns comfort, there would be but dark clouds 
over all of us. The days, the years, are but 
the seconds and moments of God ! That of 
time we prize so highly is of no moment to 
Him, and yet how we hang on the great pen- 
dulum, with its fifty-two figures thereon, each 
like this of which we write ! 

Death is not dreadful. It is but the sleep- 
ing here to waken there ! It is but sinking 
to rest in our office, when wearied with the 
labors of the day, and waking at home, where 
about us will stand, in the sunshine of God's 
wondrous love, the dear ones gone before to 
prepare the parlor of Eternity for our use 
and our resting, forever! And who would 
fear to thus sleep — to lay by the pen, to shove 
back from the desk, and say, " Good-by, weary- 
ing labors; we part forever; " to recline the 
head on back of cushioned chair, to smile as 



Sinking to Best. 131 

our eyes see the loved ones waiting, and tc 
know that instead of walking we are wafted 
silently and on wings of love, lest we waken 
before the glad surprise! 

"Working-man and brother ! we care not 
what your language, or how much you differ 
from us in opinion, to you we talk to-night. 
Opinions are but opinions. We may be 
wrong, you may be wrong; each of us may be 
wrong; for none but God is right. You have a 
right to your ideas, we have a right to ours; 
for they are all born of a higher power, to be 
operated on by acts, events, and arguments. 
But we would add to your happiness here. 
Another will care for you in the Hereafter, as 
He will care for all of us. You teach us, by 
your daily example, many things. "We see 
you nobly striving, and would help you, if 
such thing can be. 

"We all seek happiness. Let us see how it 
can be had. You are tired. Then rest. Go 



132 Out Saturday Wights. 

home and be with those who are with you 
and of you. Throw your labor and dignity 
behind you. Open your heart. Talk of the 
beauties of the past you have seen, and con- 
gratulate yourselves that so much misery which 
has befallen others has escaped you. No 
matter how hard your lot, some one has a 
harder one. Think if there are not near you 
those you would not, on any account, change 
places with. 

If you love, love more. If you hate, hate 
less. Life is too short to spend in hating any 
one. Why war against a mortal who is going 
the same road with us? Why not expand 
the flower of life and happiness, by learning to 
love, by teaching those who are near and dear 
the beautiful lesson? Your hands may be 
hard, but your hearts need not be! Your 
forms may be bent or ugly, but do you not 
know that the most beautiful flowers often 
grow in the most rugged, imsheltered places? 



Sinking to Best, 133 

The palace for care, the cottage for love. Not 
that there is no love in the mansion; but 
somehow, if we are not very careful, business 
will crowd all there is of beauty out of the 
heart. This is why God has given us Sab- 
baths and Saturday Nights, that we may leave 
business in the office, and have a heart-clean- 
ing. 

Forgive, as you would be forgiven. Love 
as you would be loved. Do as you would be 
done by. Suppose you were a weary prisoner 
at home, and think how welcome would be 
the coming of her you love, to be with you 
one night, if not each night, and go by the 
places of dissipation, of wickedness, where 
people would not so congregate if they did 
not forget! If you would have home happy, 
try to make it so. Light the lamp of life and 
keep it filled with the oil of love, care, affec- 
tion, tenderness, and caresses, that it may not 
go to sleep in the dark when the work of life 



134 Our Saturday Nights, 

is ended. Children often fear to go to sleep 
in the dark; but there is another sleep, and a 
more terrible darkness! Only this, and nothing 
more! 

Suppose we fall asleep in the office this 
Saturday I^ight, and, neglecting to have trim- 
med our lamp, awaken to find but darkness 
and gloom and uncertainty? We may find 
matches, but of what avail if there be no oil? 
We may die and live again ; but if there be no 
lamps of love to lighten our future, better that 
we lived, even in sorrow. 

Home can be happy if we make it so. Do 
not expect to cull all the flowers. Do not, 
simply to please yourself ! We repeat : do 
not, simply to please yourself ; for therein lies 
the shroud of happiness? Give as is given. 
Keep back the bitter words. Others may be 
weary and bitter. Words unspoken are 
never remembered! 

Go home to-night. If you would be happy, 



Sinking to Best. 135 

go home. If there is no happiness there, take 
some and kindle more. Save your earnings. 
Beautify your resting-places. Keep your 
heart warm and your brain steady. Save 
rather than waste, for the days go by faster 
than we dream, and want may overtake us, 
as it has others who lost the week in the 
great whirlpool of Saturday Night. 



'Vgiimi 




T 





XY. 

Standing before the Minister. 

ATURDAY Night, and they have long 

been our friends. So they invited us. 

Merely a little private affair. Him and 

her, and five invited guests. Twenty-four to 

nineteen, and they love each other. 

It was not a grand wedding; that is, there 

was no line of carriages, diamond-glittered sensa- 
(136) 



Standing hefore the Minister, 137 

tion-seekers called friends. No army of waitere, 
bridesmaids, musicians, nshers; no saloon and 
lunch-room in the back parlor; no grand 
splm-ge as if no one had married before! 

But there were, it seemed to us, angels in 
the air, as, hand in hand, they stood before the 
minister, with eyes looking down as if to see the 
heart, they said " Yes," and with beautiful faith 
in the future began the wondrous voyage on that 
ocean thick with wrecked hopes and life's 
rinsings ! 

They were lovers. 

They are man and wife. 

They were and are our friends. 

They begin life as we did years ago, homeless 
and houseless, but blessed with health, pluck, 
and a will to work. When the ceremony of 
marriage was over, we shook each by the hand, 
and wished them well. But we did not kiss 
the bride. We would not wish every spectator 
+0 kiss our new bride. Custom compels brides 



138 Our Saturday Nights. 

to submit to be kissed at this time bj every 
comer, as men take a last look at a corpse. 
Confound such custom ! The bridegroom stands 
to see his wife in the arms or hands of others 
— then takes to his bosom his dream of purity, 
her lips pounded and flavored with various 
breaths, liquors, and brands of tobacco. Not any 
for us ! 

The bride, a good, plain, honest, dark-eyed, 
sensible woman, asked, " Will you tell me how 
to always be as happy as now % " 

" Yes : always be so ! " 

It is late to-night. We have been thinking 
how to help our young friends. The greatest 
help we ever had was from an earnest friend, 
who gave us good advice ; and we thanked 
him for it. So we, to-night, before sleeping, 
answer the question of the bride. 

You are young. You wish to be happy. 
That is like a toy passed to each generation ! 



Standing lefore the Minister. 139 

We all wish the same. There is no particular 
secret about it. If you want a wife, you work 
to win her. If you want a husband, you act, 
dress, and talk to please him. This is well. As 
you do this, so does your love grow and fasten. 
If you want an education, study brings it. If 
you want influence, you work for it. If 
you want happiness, plan and work for it. 
Don't neglect twice to care for once. Even our 
chronometer, reliable to a second, month after 
month, must be wound up, ke;pt running, and 
thus is always to be relied on. So with hap- 
piness. Keep it running. Don't let it grow 
cold. Like iron molten in blast-furnaces and 
allowed to cool, there is no getting it out except 
by aid of cold-chisel and drudgery, or the 
destruction of the furnace. It is hard to disturb 
a dream and begin where you left off. So with 

love. 

Be kind to each other. Never speak a harsh 
word to the loved one. Never speak while in 



140 Our Saturday Nights, 

anger. Hot words, like hot iron, leave a scar 
long after the iron has been taken away. Bear 
with each other. Strive to make each other 
happy. See who can do the most in this way, 
and be the best. Do not order as if he or she 
were a dog or a slave. Thank with words, with 
kisses, with looks of love for little acts, favors, 
and kindness. Coax, but never drive one out of 
the blues, depression of spirits, or sombre 
thoughts. Here is love's great mission. EespQct 
the feelings and passion of the other. Let your 
life be a trinity of love, dignity, and goodness. 
But do not mistake coarseness, roughness, tyr- 
anny, and that domineering hauteur^ for dignity, 
as many do. 

And to him who has the work to do. Be 
careful. Labor and save. Earn a home. You 
can do it, else you are not so good as other 
men. Do not fool away your earnings. Do not 
gamble till you can afford to lose. Do not 
spend money for drink, for then your head, your 



Standing before the Minister, 141 

purse, your heart is robbed. Earn and save, 
little by little, and in a few years, a home is 
yours. 

The dollars you might spend foolishly, if 
invested in clothes for your wife, would make 
you proud of her; in books, pictures or furni- 
ture, proud of your home. Take care of what 
you have; it gives strength and encouragement 
to you both. When you buy a bundle to take 
home, don't pawn it, throw it in the gutter, or 
leave it on some bar-counter. That heart is a 
choice bundle ; don't leave it here, or you'll lose 
it in the hereafter. 

Have faith — have pluck — work — save. Be 
a man; not a brute, but a man. Be kind to 
your home ones ; be with them all you can ; take 
them with you all you can. Let them know that 
you take more interest in them than all others. 
Leave your head in your office, store, or shop ; 
take your heart home. Bomp and unbend from 
care ; it wont hurt you one bit. Dress-parade is 



142 Our Saturday Nights, 

hard work. Keep sober; then you know what 
you are about, and others will respect you at all 
times, and your family will be proud of you, and 
you will be proud of yourself. Try to be some- 
body, and you will be apt to succeed. Give not 
grudgingly of love, or kind words, or comforts. 
All there is of life is what we get out of it to 
make us happy. Think of her you love at home. 
The days are long to her. Day after day she 
cooks, scrubs, cares for you and the little ones, 
washes, irons, mends, thinks and wishes, and 
hopes and fears. Don't let her lose confidence 
in you. Life with one in whom you have not 
perfect confidence is hell. 

And to youwho said " yes " to his wooing. Be 
good and love him. Let politics alone. Make 
home happy. Keep clean and neat. Try to 
make your room or your home happy. Don't 
scold, nor pout, nor sulk, nor be continually 
looking into pockets and letters for some evi- 
dence of something you would like to find. 



Standing hefore the Minister. 143 

Have confidence in liim, and lie will not be so 
apt to deceive you. Help him to live within 
yonr means. Pay no attention to dress and style 
beyond your abilily. People care less for us all 
than we imagine. Dress plainly, neatly, in 
taste. More attention to the heart than the 
hair. 

Then try to live for each other. This is about 
all there is of life. You can be happy in a 
cabin as in a palace, if you will only try to make 
your heart right. The only real home we have 
on earth is in the heart, the arms, or the presence 
of those we love, and no one can occupy two 
rooms at the same time. Enjoy that which you 
have, and thank God that you live, are loved, 
and have a home in which to enjoy your love 
and rest from the labors of the week, when you 
can go to it like a monarch to his throne when 
comes the blessed Saturday Night. 




XYI. 



About Burdens, and Those Who Bear Them. 



IW^ II^I^ t^^y never tire f 
'^^^ Do they care nothing for any of ns ? 
Will there never be a halt to time, or 
will the weeks rush by like those swift-rushing 
trains bearing heavy burdens on — on — on — 
on! leaving here and there some article, as 

we by the weeks are left, but ever rushing 
(144) 



Burdens^ and Those Who Bear Them. .145 

on? And as those trains rush on, driven by 
a power we cannot see, so move the weeks 
on the down-grade to Eternity, caring noth- 
ing for the ones who may be ground to atoms 
by the flying burden. 

Let us, who are wise, look out before the 
train — the coming of the final week, which 
will grind us into endless pain if we do not 
step aside into places of safety. 

But those burdens! 

This Saturday Night we were very tired 
in mind and body, yet light of heart as any 
linnet's feather, for the work of the week 
was done — as we felt, well done. lN"ot one 
unkind word had we spoken — not one act 
performed we would not have our loved ones 
know of — no man wronged of a penny. 

Homeward, slowly walking. Men — glorious, 
muscular, rough-bearded, honest-faced working- 
men — hurried by with their little tin pails, 

every now and then one of them having a 
10 



14:6 Our Saturday Nights, 

copy of our newspaper, bought of a newsboy 
or from a news-stand. One man stopped at 
a little fruit-standj threw down ten cents, and 
said good-naturedly to the old woman, — 

"Some pears, aunty. Some good ones for 
my little ones, and put 'em in the pail." 

They filled the pail nearly half-full. "We 
looked at him in admiration, and thought of 
the joke he would have on the little ones 
when he gave them the pail to put in its 
accustomed place against the Monday. He 
looked good natured, and we asked him, — 

"How many little ones have you?" 

"Four." 

"Where do you live?" 

"On Fourth Street." 

"Can you carry more than you have in 
your pail?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Can you carry a few things up that way 
for me?" 



Burdens, arid Those Who Bear Them. 147 

"Well, I am not in the carrying business, 
but I don't mind to accommodate a man." 

"All right. Aunty, fill that pail full of 
pears. Now, if you will carry these also to 
your little ones, and this big Bartlett to your 
wife, and this one for yourself, it will be a 
great accommodation to me." 

"Well, but — but — what for? Who are 

you?" 

"ITever mind, but take these to your babies 
for me, and I'll thank you ; for my baby is 
away on a visit, and I can't take her any 
to-night, and it will do as well if you take 
them to your little ones." 

And we separated. He winked, and looked, 
and walked on to look back over his shoulder, 
as did we. He was not insulted at our rude- 
ness, for the heart knows its friends. 

Then we walked on, and on, and on! The 
carriages rolled by, rich men sitting back 
against the chshions. And the omnibuses, 



148 Our Saturday Nights, 

and the street cars, and the hackney 
coaches, all bore away to homes those 
who needed rest. And the cartmen, with 
tired horses, passed us to homes somewhere. 
And the streets were full of people on foot, 
crowding each other, as a little girl, not six 
years old — a ragged, barefoot, bare-head, half- 
dressed little thing, with a weazenish, shrunken, 
famine-piriched face, — came staggering across 
the street, with a heavy bundle of blocks and 
sticks, gathered from the ruins of a building 
near by, where the fi^e had been at work yes- 
terday. It was a load we should not have 
cared to lug away, but she hurried on as if 
being pursued. 

As thought directed, we touched her shoul- 
der and lifted therefrom the bundle, tied by 
a dirty cord. She sprang as if struck, and, 
with a tear in her eye, said, — 

"Please don't, sir; I didn't mean to steal 
them!" 



Burdens, and Those Who Bear Them. 149 

"Come here, little one." 

"No, sir; I'd rather go home!" 

" Come here ; don't be afraid. The bundle 
is too big for you ; we'll carry it a little 
way for you." 

She looked at us, half in doubt, as if fear- 
ing a trick, or arrest, for they drive children 
away from places where chips, little blocks, 
and sticks, are picked up in great cities. They 
are valuable — worth many dollars a cord — and 
luxuries are not for the poor! Think of this, 
ye who live in the country, by timber where 
the poor of New York would be happy if 
they could gather the limbs, and chunks, and 
bark, and sticks that are rotting. 

"What is your name?" 

"Anna McKafferty, sir." 

"Where do you live, Anna?" 

"In Houston Street." 

"Is your father alive?" 

"Yes, sir." 



150 Our Saturday Nights, 

"What does he do?" 

"Nothing, sir; but mother does." 

"What does your mother do, Annal" 

"She does anything she can get to do, sir. 
She goes out to scrub, and takes care of 
father." 

"Is your father sick?" 

"Sometimes he comes home nights sick, 
so sick he can't walk, and sometimes mother 
goes out to find him." 

And she told us this as we sat on the lit- 
tle bundle, by a fruit-stand on the Bowery. 
Did you ever see a little half-starved, six- 
year-old girl, whose dress revealed the en- 
tire anatomy and structure of her little skele- 
ton frame, eat pears ? Did you ever see a 
half-starved cat or dog that had been kicked 
and pounded by cruel people, eat a piece of 
meat, gnawing into it, looking up and doAvn, 
and all about, as if expecting some trick, some 
blow, some order to "get out"? If you who 



Burdens, and Those Who Bear Them. 151 

have plenty in the country, yet who are always 
growling, and whining, and finding fault, and 
worrying over your supposed poverty, could 
see the poor of our cities, you would de- 
serve cursing if you did not thank God for 
what you have and realize that you were and 
are kings compared to the starved ones, the 
human rats and mice that literally hunt for 
a living in this great city. 

From the Bowery into Houston Street went 
this " somebody's baby," bearing her great bun- 
dle. God order that no rough policeman hit her 
with a club, arrest her for stealing kindling, 
send her to prison, and win promotion from 
brutal headquarters! Although it is wrong to 
steal, the bondholder and his Government 
rob the poor ;. yet the poor must not snatch 
a chip or a crust and escape; for the dignity 
of the law — the faith of the Government 
must be preserved! 

But on she went with her burden. And 



152 Our Saturday Nights, 

up the Bowery we walked, thinking of those 
who bear great burdens, almost above their 
strength. God pity them all — old, young, 
friends or enemies. How many there are whose 
burdens we can see. But these are not the 
heaviest ! Men struggling to live, to accumu- 
late — to save enough to make home comfort- 
able and own their own coffins! 

Men struggling to escape the burden of 
dissipation, yet lacking the pluck to walk out 
from under therefrom like men. 

Women with cold homes, cheerless walls, 
bare floors, starving children, and husbands 
going hellward through intoxication, leaving 
their home ones uncared for — their wives to 
beggary, their children to the street — their 
daughters to prostitution, the morgue, or death- 
house, and to the Potter's Field. Buds that 
might have blossomed, torn off and trampled 
into the filth of the gutter! 



Burdens, and Those Who Bear Them. 153 

And the hidden burdens are the worst, for 
none can help ns carry them, nor none can 
escape from them to rest. Let us be careful 
how we take them! 

All over the land are they who bear bur- 
dens. Some of doubt, of fear, of mistrust, of 
disappointment, of neglect, of cruelty, of un- 
kindness, of indifference. We close our eyes 
on the surface to open them to the interior 
of this picture of life, and see burdens in 
thousands of homes,— thousands of hearts,— and 
thank God that ours are no greater. 

And this is our strength — our life. No 
matter what our burdens, there are heavier 
ones borne by others! There is no person in 
the world but might be worse off. No mat- 
ter what our load, somebody, child or adult, 
man or woman, is bearing a heavier one, and 
here is cause for thankful happiness. So we 
do our duty, strive to help those who bear bur- 



154: 



Out Saturday Nights, 



dens, and thus we do surely lighten and for- 
get our own. And thus may it ever be wliile 
life lasts, from this till our final temporal 
Saturday Night. 





XYII. 
Eest for the Weaet. 

OW slow the hands creep over the 

dial; how the brain burns and throbs 

as we work and wait for the coming 

hour which will release us from labor ! Life 

is but a trial — a sentence — an imprisonment 

for those who toil; and were it not that the 

Angel of Saturday Night, like some heaven- 

(155) 




156 Our Saturday Nights. 

sent fairy, comes each week to release us from 
over-taxing work and lead ns to rest with 
the loved ones, death would be sweeter than life, 
even without its golden rewards for those wlio 
try to be good and noble. 

To-night we are too worn and weary to 
write as we would like. We are like thou- 
sands who, all the week, have toiled beyond 
their strength to earn comforts for the dear 
ones, and who now feel to envy those who 
sleep behind marble head-boards in the " silent 
city." Oh! for the good time coming, when 
we can be with the ones who wait our coming, 
and whose smiles are ever more life-giving than 
spring. The hours seem long as we watch the 
dial face, for the welcome that awaits us has 
in it that love which lures us to the happy 
eternal by mellowing the heart, purifying the 
soul, and giving us confidence in each other. 

Sometimes we think life is not worth the 
living. It is not, to many. It would not be 



Rest for tJie Weary, 157 

for any of ns but for the unspoken beautiful 
which draws us captive to the hearth and fen- 
der. As love conies to us, so we give in re- 
turn, each to each, with accumulative interest. 
Smiles are bom of happy hearts. Happy hearts 
are born of better natures. Smiles brighten our 
pathway; and when the dearest eyes in all the 
world look into ours, so full, strong, deep and 
earnest, we could, should, and would dare any 
danger, face any death, or wrestle with any 
fate which stood between us and the only 
earthly reward there is to life ! 

We are weary, but only of toil. Others are 
weary. Strong men are trembling in their 
muscle to-night, for they have battled severely 
all the week to keep want and hunger from 
the sacred circle where gather those whose 
hearts, day by day, run more and more into 
each other. Young men, with hearts full of 
embryo happiness, golden dreams, in which 
warm lips, love-lit eyes, trusting hearts, and fu- 



158 Out Saturday Nights. 

ture homes of their own are mixed floating, as 
incentives to strive with earnestness — they are 
weary. 

But the day comes when they will be 
more so, when they will go slowly to their homes 
with bent forms, as do thousands who will 
rest in their graves before there comes to 
any of us another Saturday Night. 

And the watcher by the hearth is weary! 
She, too, has toiled all the week. That clean 
floor, that well-kept hearth and fender, the 
snowy linen, the clean dishes, the sweet, clean 
shelves in pantry and cupboard, the clean 
doors, walls, and windows; that look of home 
cheer which should mark every earthly heaven ; 
that tidy, sweet, lovable look, no matter for 
the years, tell that she too has labored and 
is weary. Then, good man, working-man and 
brother in toil, be kind, speak kindly, act 
kindly, lovingly, to the one who has worked 
for you as you have for her. 



Rest for the Weary. 159 

She is the one who cares most for you, who 
in heart is the dearest; she is to you as you 
are to her — two silken strands weaving to- 
gether to bless or to curse as you will. The 
world cares not for you. Not one of us is 
of account to the world, for it moves whether 
we do or not; it was here when we came; 
it will be here with all its cold, selfish in- 
difference when we die, and centuries after 
we are forgotten except in the deeds we do 
worth remembering. After a time will come 
the final Saturday Night to all of us, and 
the only ones who will weep and mourn, as 
we would for them, will be the ones who 
welcome us to the hearth and fender; who 
love us far more dearly than pen or words of 
ours can tell; who have often been weary, but 
always entitled to more rest and happiness 
than any of us here below. 

Let us love best those who are dearest and 
kindest, and most in sympathy. Yery soon 



160 Our Saturday Nights. 

there will be no going forth Monday morn- 
ing — no more use for the little tin pail — 
no more need to walk with rapid steps lest 
we be late. Instead of listening to the noise 
outside, of looking closely with eye and brain 
upon the work to do; instead of toiling for 
those we love and for ourselves, there will be 
a little room, with perhaps a few pictures 
therein — a weary watching of shadows on the 
wall — a nervous, tiresome, restless, turning 
upon a sick bed as we toss like infants, help- 
less in the care of the loved ones. 

Then the hours will fly, oh! so swiftly, as 
we are called to look with eyes of life upon 
those who are left behind to weep, and pray, 
and mom-n. Then will, like panoramas, pass 
by the work we have done, the plans made, 
and the results accomplished; the streets of 
the city, with their staring and glaring walls 
will fade out; the changing scenes of earth 
will melt out and float down the turbid wa- 



Rest for the Weary. 161 

ters of the past, the only pictures engraven 
upon our hearts being the faces, the forms, 
the smiles, the eye-whispers of the loved ones 
we hope soon to meet; and the only creden- 
tials for His beautiful land and a home where 
none but loved ones enter the good acts, kind 
words, and noble deeds, great or small, given 
by us to the ones who with us are ever 
weary but ever needing the love and kindness 
we who are strong at times fail to give. 

When this day comes there will be no more 
weariness, while the prayers of those who will 
mourn our departure will bear us to the land 
of the leal, where we can rest, or return in 
spirit to guard and bless those dear to us now. 

Life is nothing; but for those we love it 
would not be worth the living. Then let us 
all who are men, be better, truer, more de- 
serving. Let us take more care of ourselves, 
of our health of our earnings, that those 

who look with joy for our coming may be 
11 



162 Out Saturday Nights, 

glad, and by faith, love, kindness deserved, 
and trusting sympathy, help us all to reach 
the Eternal Island of the true, where there 
will be no more labor; no more oppression 
for poor; no more robbing of those who toil 
for the benefit of those who do not ; no 
no more vain watchings, and no more Saturday 
Nights. 





XYIII. 
Only a Pook Old Wood-sawtee! 

sATUKDAY NIGHT, and the welcome 

rest it brings! And life spared, we 

hope, for some good purpose, as time 

will tell when the string of seven-day beads 

are all connted ! 




He conld not have been less than seventy 

(163) 



164 Our Saturday Nights, 

years of age. We saw him this afternoon, 
with his ragged clothes, wrinkled face, bent 
form, and thin, white hair, working on the 
sidewalk, sawing a little pine kindling-wood, 
and throwing it into the cellar, through a 
little round trap-hole. His battered hat was 
on a step hard by. His little old saw hardly 
felt the power that sent it slowly through 
the wood, for the arm was feeble, as was the 
life-current of the poor old man. 

We paused in our walk to look at him. 
Time was cutting away at him as he was at 
the wood, and soon he too will drop out of 
sight. God give him good rest when comes 
the day. 

"Good evening, uncle!" 

"Eh-c^^/ ^-cee! Gh.-cee! ek-cee ! eh-cee/^^ 

He did not stop till the stick was in two, 
and we spoke in louder tone, — 

"Good evening, uncle. Your job is most 
done!" 



Only a Poor Old Wood-sawyer! 165 

He slowly raised from his labor, rubbed 
the bare right arm across his forehead, looked 
at us for half a minute, and slowly said, — 

"Yes; my work is most done!" 

"Let us saw a few sticks, just for luck 
and old times." 

The old man looked at us from head to 
foot, shook his head, and said, — 

"Please don't fool with an old man!" 

"Let me take your saw." 

Mechanically he handed it to us, and we 
finished his task while he sat and rested, 
evidently wondering if the "new man" at the 
job were crazy or a myth. And we thought, 
as we sawed the dozen sticks, that the work 
of the old man was almost done, and wondered 
if God would doom us to live so long here, 
away from the beautiful "over there"! And 
we thought; and thought that man was 
much like the saw; w^eut up and down, 
cutting his way through life, at last to get 



166 Our Saturday Nights, 

through just in time to see the sticks he has 
sawed taken for use by others! 

Then, what do we amount to more than 
the saw? This! there is a power, a Grand 
Arm, that directs us for a purpose; that causes 
us to cut blocks, to shorten old styles of 
doing work, to fit our work to the great 
temple being built silently in the East. 

Then we sat and talked a few moments 
with the old man. And he told us the 
simple story of a life — the first time he had 
ever told it. No romance, but plain truth. 
And this it was: 

Born. Eeared by wealthy parents near 
Rochester. Came to !N"ew York, years ago, 
when a young man. Clerk in a hardware 
store on lower Pearl Street. Gay fellow with 
the boys. Married. Spent his wife's fortune; 
buried her, lived in dissipation; "luck" 
went against him when his old cronies saw 
him going ruinward. Ten years he had lived 



Only a Poor Old Wood-sawyer ! 167 

in cellars and garrets, on floors, straw mat- 
rasses, coarse food, and sometimes none, and 
sometimes good meals, as those for whom he 
had done odd jobs at times called him into 
the kitchen. 

This was the story. Hardly more words 
than years to his life. But he was almost 
through work. A little longer, and then good- 
bye, old saw and weary tramps for a little 
work. He said the saw was better than 
none. "When I file the saw it works well. 
But men don't do so: sometimes they don't 
do anything for what you do for them!" 
This is what the old man said, and it struck 
us as a great truth sawed out of life by nearly 
eighty years of toil! 

Then we walked and talked. The heart of 
the old man had gone. Ko home; not one 
to love or care for him. What mattered 
houses or lands to him; or horses or car- 
riages; or diamonds, or jewelry? No one was 



168 Out Saturday Nights, 

glad when he came or sorry when he went. 
The joyous echoes of the past were drowned 
so deep in the dissipation of years agone, 
they came to him only in dreams! 

What an ending to life! God's gift toward 
advancement frittered away! Thrown away, 
despised, trodden under feet, ignored, drowned 
in dissipation and murdered, while "good 
fellows" clanked glasses and laughed at the 
fools who raved of life, of love, of honor, 
of manhood, of earnings, that when came the 
day to rest, there might be a place. Even 
birds save bits of down and lint, carrying 
them miles to soften their nests! 

And we came home, thinking of life and its 
duties, and of the poor old men all over the 
land. Of those who had no regard for the 
future when they dulled their lives foolishly 
and tossed the days down their throats. And 
of the poor old men, in shops, and on farms; 
and working by the roadside to catch up in 



Only a Poor Old Wood-sawyer! 169 

the race, and to help bury in paupers' graves 
those still poorer than themselves. And of 
the poor old men whose nights are full of 
tremors and ugly dreams, as they sleep on the 
briars and thorns of that life from which they 
cut out the beautiful to save the bad! 

What would you, honest reader, say to a 
man who should go into his flower-garden, 
and, with knife, shears, pincers, fingers, or hot 
poison, cut off, tear out, and kill the beautiful 
buds, flowers, and seeds; leaving the roots, 
sharp-pointed limbs, and odorless sticks as 
ornaments? Well, that man lives on each 
side of us. He lives everywhere. And when 
he dies, what a bouquet will his garden afford 
for the coffin! And there are girls — women, 
who thus do. God pity them, for they are 
insane ! 

And there are others who go into their 
garden, cutting out the roots that give troubles 
and against which toes are caught, and branches. 



170 Our Saturday Nights. 

that bear no flowers, and flowers that give no 
fragrant odor. Some will ride or walk by, and 
sneer at the honest worker to-day; but they 
pause to admire to-morrow! And they want 
to know how he made his garden so beautiful ! 
And they will send there for flowers to deck 
the bridal vail or the funeral pall. 

The poor old man passed on to his garret on 
Eighty-first Street, and we to our writing. 
Such poor old men we pity. ITo one seems to 
care for them. They are taxed on their matches, 
on their rags, on their crust of bread, on 
their pipe and tobacco, on their medicine 
to benefit the rich. And it must be so lonely, 
this being near the wharf, with no one to go 
ashore with you that you know, or who cares 
for you! 

Give us years that bend the chin to the 
chest if you will, but, O God in Heaven, give 
us some one to love even then, when the night 
is coming upon us! The night that but hides 



Only a Poor Old Wood-sawyer ! 171 

the morn; but still, the night! It must be 
fearful to die alone — and no one so alone as 
the poor who are alone and unloved. 

Kings and queens are those without dollars 
or dimes who may be old and poor, but yet 
loved and honorable. Hand in hand down the 
narrowing lane ! There is glory in the old love, 
life in the old caresses, heart in the old 
kisses, and heaven in the flickering of that old 
life, which, with loved ones, wanders in beau- 
tiful gardens, from which those who wander 
and rest 'neath fragrant shades picked and 
clipped the thorns and brambles long ago. 

Let us all speak kindly to those who are 
old and growing old. Yery soon the nar- 
rowing road will shut them out, and very 
soon we, too, will go out. And as we do by 
the poor and aged ones, so will others do kindly 
or unkindly by us, when our work is ended and 
comes, to rich and poor, old and young, loved 
and unloved, the final Saturday Night. 




XIX. 

Home to the Loved Ones. 

LL the week at work. Day after day 
came and went like eclioes from wond- 
rous shores. Morn, noon, and night, in 
each other's hand, closed upon the labors of 
ns all, and made another volume of seven good, 
bad, or indifferent chapters. 

The work of the week is finished, and now, 

(1T2) 




Home to the Loved Ones, 173 

weary, heart sore, doubting life and not fear- 
ing death, we put by the pen and go home 
with those who, with us, have labored hard all 
the week past. 

Saturday Night is the jewel of His evening 
crown. It is the oasis on the desert of la- 
bor, for here we rest. A week is not much, 
yet it is more than a life to many. Look 
about. 

See the honest laborers, the men of toil, the 
ones who are building up the country and 
working themselves into the graves for the 
benefit of others, or to sustain life. We have 
seen them all the past week — all the past 
weeks of life. Men in shops, in stores, in 
ofiices; men through whose veins the hot life 
of blood courses as they build castles in the air 
for themselves and their loved ones to occupy; 
men who have long since passed the centre, 
and now verge upon the eternal. All the 
days we have thought of the workingmen, of 



174 Our Saturday Nights. 

the ones who are, by labor, either of head or 
hand, supporting themselves and home ones. 

To-night thej are going home. Tired, and 
needing rest, nervous, and needing kind words, 
they are going to their loved ones, and most 
earnestly do we say, joy, love, peace, and hap- 
piness be theirs. For the workingmen deserve 
all this. 

And, good wife, when he comes home tired, 
be kind to him. Hours after hours, days after 
days, he works to make a home. He works 
for you and the little ones. He thinks of you 
often — so often! He saves where he might 
spend foolishly, and thinks of a thousand 
plans to benefit his loved ones and beautify 
his home. 

See the books, the papers, the pictures, the 
carpets, the little keepsakes he has from time 
to time brought with him. Each article cost 
him toil. His hands may be hard, but his 
heart is warm, ^o man in all the world gives 



Home to the Loved Ones. 175 

so liberally to help tlie needy and relieve dis- 
tress as does the man who earns his bread in 
the sweat of his face, and by the muscle of 
his arms. It may be but little he gives, but 
that little is a part of himself — drops from 
the fountain which is filled but once, and 
which is lowered and lessened each week 
when comes Saturday Night. 

Hour after hour we sit and think of the 
little homes of America. "We look in upon 
thousands and thousands who see us not, and 
never think of our looking. We love the 
homes of those who labor, for tliey seem dearer 
than the homes of the rich, who need no one 
to pity them. We look in upon those who 
live in little rooms up stairs — small rooms in 
cellars. Upon those who have homes, whole 
homes of their own; we see, in some, good 
wives waiting, with cheerful face, the coming 
of the tired one who is so loved. And we see, 
in some, clean, happy children, joyful, for papa 



176 Ov/r Saturday Nights. 

is soon coming to kiss, to romp, to gladden. 
Then we say, God bless the workingmen 
who have homes, no matter whether they like 
ns or not. 

And in some homes we see wives cross and 
peevish, dirty, slatternly, careless. They are 
not the girls once so loved, for time has 
wi-onght changes. And we see children, dirty 
and unrestrained, noisy and saucy, reflecting 
no credit on parents. 

And we see homes where the floors are 
bare, the walls nnornamented by a single pic- 
ture, the cupboard empty, the coal-box empty 
or the wood pile low, the home ones clad in 
rags; for the one who should care for and 
protect them has spent his earnings in dissipa- 
tion, to make attractive those places which 
ruin him. But we will not chide, for may be 
cold words, hot words, cutting words, and 
that unspoken and unspeakable sorrow of the 
heart which no one can find words to tell 



Home to the Loved Ones, 177 

all of, has sent him often to any place rather 
than the cruel mockery of home. God pity 
all of us I 

Do you ever think, working brother, of 
home and the beauties you can crowd therein? 
Loved ones, who are so happy when you come 
with kind words to greet them. Hooms made 
beautiful by result of labor; books, pictures, 
papers, magazines, in which you can read 
the thoughts of those who toil with the 
brain. And as you think of home all the 
week, are you not glad that there comes Sat- 
urday Kight for us to give to those who have 
seen us so little all the week? We do not 
like cold homes, cheerless homes, where the 
heart is a tortured prisoner, but a bright, 
happy home, where the loved wait our com- 
ing. 

The home we can have, if we will it; the 

home we can work for and be thankful for. 

The home where a warm, true, trusting heart, 
12 



1Y8 Our Saturday Nights, 

dearer almost tlian the promise of Heaven, 
waits our coming. The home where she waits, 
with bursting heart, deep love-lit eye, and 
moist, loving lips, to welcome us as, hand in 
hand, heart to heart, there is given such a 
welcome and unspoken vows for the future as 
no tongue or pen can tell. Home, where the 
heart is at rest, where one can sit for hours 
reading the volumes of love, unwritten, as they 
come fi'om the eye that telegraphs to eye 
words and secrets others know not of. 

"Would to Him who gives out the new days 
and calls in the old ones, torn, blackened, dis- 
graced and blotted by us on earth, that in all 
the land were none but happy homes, true 
loves and true hearts for all who toil, and bear 
burdens of heart or body. And if words of 
ours, or the energies of life, can or will make 
even one poor mortal happier or better; if 
words we can say which come from the heart 
can lighten the load all must bear, then will 



Home to the Loved Ones. 



179 



we be more than tliankful that God gave ns 
life and a heart to think of and write for 
those who, with us, have toiled all the week, 
and who would rest Saturday Night. 






XX. 

A-ROTTT THAT LiTTLE " YeS." 

AST Saturday Night a maid ! This Sat- 

^. urday Night a wife ! 

We knew her years ago, when but a 

little girl; a romping, bright-eyed, pretty-faced 

little darling, the pet of all and the promise of 

surpassing loveliness. Year by year she grew, 

till the years came upon her like flakes of snow 
(180) 



Alout thai Little "Tes^ 181 

to protect her loving purity, and at last her heart 
warmed with a new love; and one Saturday 
IN'ight the " Yes" she said, closed the past and 
opened the future to — God only knows what ! 

It was one night when the week was resting 
from its whirl, and the good angel was weeping 
over our records, as the revolving days had 
stamped the good and the bad of our lives on 
the lasting pages before him, that a chosen one 
came to the door. How her heart throbbed, as it 
trembled, for, it knew not what. The hours had 
been longer than their wont all day, for he was 
coming. The sunset seemed so long a-coming; 
the twilight seemed so loitersome, even after the 
golden pattern for the morrow's clouds had been 
left in the west, that a shade of anxiety rested 
over the face of the darling who waited. 

But he came. Who could not tell his step 
from all others? And who touched the door 
knob as he? E'o one! And by her side he 
sat. Hand in hand, palm on palm resting, eye 



182 Out Saturday Nights. 

reading eye, and hearts sweetly communing. 
The hours of man were the seconds of God, so 
quickly did they drop into the well of time. 
And as the new week came, with its flowery 
promises to cover the sorrows of the old between 
the dead " now " and the living " then ; " as the 
seven-day volume was closed, not lips alone, but 
hands, eyes, heart, and soul said, " Yesl" 

One long, pure, trusting, lingering kiss, calling 
back all the kisses before given ! and to the new 
week was born a new betrothal. This was then ; 
one of the Saturday ITights of the past. And 
since then there was another kiss, as out on the 
great sea went the new voyagers, brave, trusting, 
hopeful, loving. 

God be with them. And God be with her. 
She is good and pure. She has given him all of 
her past, present, and future, even to the foot of 
the beautiful throne. Her dreams in the past are 
on the shelves of the future ; God grant they 
may blossom more beautiful than the budding. 



About that Little "Yes^ 183 

But these words from a friend who loves those 
who love. From one who is hastening on to the 
shore which bids good-bye to every Saturday 
Night, and crosses us to the golden Sabbath of a 
more busy rest. Busier, for we shall have more 
to do ; more rest, for we shall know how better ! 
These words from one who has had joys and sad- 
ness, oh, so deep and wearisome to heart and 
brain : 

The future of life is much as the past and the 
present. IN'ot all the clouds we look upon are 
lined with that silver we can easily reach, though 
there is a lining for us if we but seek it aright. 
Not every flower on the distant plain to which 
we are walking is fragrant, nor the coloring 
as bright as in our dreams, for then we have 
glimpses of the beautiful Eternal Land to 
which the soul strays wliile we sleep. 

There will come trials and sorrows, and 
troubles will ride on disappointments to find 
lodging in our hearts. But they will go as they 



184: Our Saturday Nights, 

come if we do not bid them to stay ! There will 
be sad hours ; for these we all have ; even Christ, 
om- Eedeemer, had. But only for a time ! 

When comes the night, he will come, perhaps 
tired and weary, while you are rested. Be kind 
to him. Little do ye know of man's temptations. 
Thus it was from the first, and we shall be for- 
given as we forgive others. Do not expect too 
much. Wooing is the blossom ; wearing is the 
fruit, which lasts only with care ! And as ye are 
hopeful, so will ye be happy. The new life is 
opening before you. The great mission must be 
filled, for thus is the vineyard worked from the 
beginning. 

Oh the beauty of that faith which sets two 
hearts voyaging across the wondrous ocean. The 
journey may be long or short for one or both ; 
but there is a meeting over there for those who 
loved on earth. The days go by like shadows in 
pursuit of dimmer ones. The reality comes to 
mock the ideal. The trials come to perfect our 



Ahout that Little ''YesP 185 

love and strengthen our faith in, and usefulness 
for the future. 

All over the land are those who last Saturday- 
Night were maidens, who now are wives. God 
bless all such. And may the married ones ever 
be mated. And if not, then let the heart speak, 
for the bird will rest and fold its wings where its 
home is, no matter how far away. 

Let those who love, love more and be good to 
each other, for thus life rests easy on us. Keep 
back the cross words, and drive doubts of him or 
her from your hearts. Strive to be good and 
kind. Often sit together as before wedlock, 
which, as a ribbon or a chain, joined you together, 
were it before man or before Ilim who holds us 
all in keeping. Kest on the roses, not the 
thorns! Look over little evils, and great ones 
will not come so quickly! Bear with life's 
burdens bravely, and they will be lighter! 
Strive and to make others so. Guard well your 
hearts to be happy and your homes, beautifjdng 
both day after day. 



186 Our Saturday Nights. 

Let no Saturday Niglit come that tlie one you 
love is not in heart dearer to you ; let no new 
Sunday volume of days be opened till the errors 
of the last be told and forgiven ; then will you be 
happy. And you, brothers, who toil, let no Sat- 
urday Night come that you do not add some- 
thing to the comforts of home and the loved 
one ; and the secret of happiness is before you. 

God bless all who toil ; who struggle ; who 
sincerely love each other. Each of us has another 
heart to make happy; and from the lessons of 
the past let us all learn wisdom for the future. 

But all are not happy ; all cannot be. Hearts 
will wander to their resting ; but when that rest 
is found let the door be closed, that none else 
enter ; that we may, with the ones we truly love, 
in health or sickness, poverty or wealth, now as 
then, go hand in hand, by day and by night, in 
sunshine and in storm, hopeful and happy, with 
trusting hearts to that land where never comes a 
Saturday Kight. 





XXL 

She Brought a Skeleton". 

jEYElN' days more wound on the invisible 

reel! And eacli day a record for His 

inspection. If there is much we would 

like blotted out now, full of life and business that 

we are, how much is there for Him to shake His 

head at; how much we would wish had not 

been written by that wondrous pen when the 

(187) 



188 Out Saturday Nights. 

record of life is open before us! Will we 
believe that record — those facts — when the 
book is passed to ns, and there comes before us 
page after page, marking the days fi-om birth to 
burial ? Will we not think the record of some 
one else has been taken down by mistake ? No ? 
Will we believe when we see f Yes ! 

Aud who of us will have credits on that book 
O that all of us might have more than we shall 
have! and then there will be none too many 
But not of this to-night. 

To-day we have been thinking. This morning 
there came to our private room a sad-faced 
woman, a stranger to us. A thousand miles 
and more had she ridden to tell us her simple 
yet sorrowful story, and to ask the advice of one 
she believed would advise honestly. The tears 
ran down her cheeks, like rain down window- 
panes when the storm is terrible outside, as hers 
was in. 

She was a wife — a mother. She came to 



She Brought a Skeleton, 189 

show us the skeleton in her soul ; to tell us her 
sorrow. Her only daughter, a fair girl of several 
teens, had gone from her. The cruel treatment 
of a father had driven the poor girl out upon the 
world. From home she went to honest labor; 
from this to companionship with those whose 
hearts and self-control are not anchored; from 
this to an assumed name and into the whirlpool 
of fast life in this terrible city. 

Could we find her? Would we find her? 
Dare we find her ? Could we save her ? "Would 
we, and how ? And the tears came out to give 
her heart room for its sobs, its sighs, its sorrows, 
and its sadness 1 

Yes : we can find her, and we will ; and some 
night like this we will tell you where, and what 
she said. 

And we have been thinking all the day. 
Thinking of those who bear sorrows, and whose 
hearts are heavy as if laden with molten potash, 
which eats, and burns, and scars, beyond God's 



190 Our Saturday Nights. 

shown power to heal, this side the great well- 
making. 

"We see persons on the streets — in their homes. 
They toil, and rest, and laugh, and weep. There 
is a volcano in each heart, throwing out bitterness 
and sadness, yet the world knows not and cares 
not. Then why uncover a disfigured corpse for 
others to gaze on and satisfy morbid desires? 
Only to those who are friends ! 

We have been thinking of the thousands of 
beautiful girls, who are lost to their homes and 
themselves, flying like down before the gale, or 
in the draft which draws them to certain heat, 
blackness, and destruction. The dress is not 
more varied than their adopted names. And 
how many of these are wept for by mothers who 
mourn as only mothers can mourn, and are 
cursed as only men can curse? They who are 
thus fading before perdition's fires are not happy, 
for there is no happiness out of that path of vel- 



She Brought a Skeleton, 191 

vet sward hedged by the beautiful flowers of 
Eight. 

Did you ever see swamps covered with a seem- 
ing carpet of beautiful green? And did you 
ever see men and cattle wading and sinking 
where all, from even a short distance, seemed so 
fair? 

There are many swamps, as God duplicates 
His creation. 

The one who wept before us this morning had 
been remiss in her duty. She paid the interest 
of her penalty in sobs and tears ; death alone 
can pay the principal ! 

Mothers — fathers, — think of your daughters. 
Love them more ; care for them ; protect them ; 
guard them more closely. The dress you 
make to-day is worn for a long journey! The 
little one in the cradle, or playing at your feet, 
you watch or neglect in her plays or romps, will 
be a curse or a blessing as her early education is 
right or wrong. 



192 Out Saturday Nights. 

Some tliere are, bom to be bad, but they are 
few. God will never ask for our dollars, but 
will demand the souls we save or lose — which 
He gave. 

There are wives and mothers, in thousands 
and tens of thousands of homes where this chap- 
ter will be read. God bless all who read it, and 
all who do not. And there are wives and moth- 
ers in the grasp of poverty, but not so poor as the 
one who came to us this morning, for her wealth 
had gone, perhaps never to be returned, at least 
with seal unbroken and stamp of purity uncan- 
celled ! 

There are those in little cabins, log-houses 
rented rooms, garrets, cellars, farm houses, vil- 
lage homes, city residences; those who toil on 
plain or prairie, on hillside and in the valley; 
who are poor, but not so poor as the broken- 
hearted mother who came to us for help to-day. 

Perhaps you toil and mourn for the dead ; but 
that is not d}dng for the living! There are 



She Brought a Skeleton, 193 

tliose of women who rise early, prepare tlie 
morning meal, rub, work, scrub, make, mend 
and labor, days and months; who may have 
rough, coarse, brutal husbands, who only marry 
to gratify passion and have a target to fire their 
anger at ; wives who are neglected, uncared for, 
deceived, betrayed; who are compelled by that 
society which sanctions legalized and solemnized 
prostitution to take to their arms and bosoms 
those they once swore to love, warm from the 
passionate embrace of other loves; who envy the 
rich and mourn over their lot, yet who are rich 
compared to the mother who came to say she had 
lost her treasure. 

Have you a young husband who loves you, 
who is true to you? Then love him, no matter 
how close the wolf stands to your door. Have 
you a husband who smiles on you, who is kind, 
and good, and earnest, and manly, and true- 
hearted, yet who is not so rich, or so gay, or so 

smart as the husband of some other woman? 
13 



194: Our Saturday Nights. 

Then love him, and help him, and each add, by 
gentle touch, sweet caress, and ready care, to 
happiness. Have you a friend who is good, and 
kind, and devoted, and all in all to you as you 
are to him or her? Then continue so till comes 
the mating, and be happy, for the little cares 
which annoy, bother, worry, and trouble you, are 
nothing compared to the skeletons which burden 
the souls of thousands who would be happy if 
laden with no more care and sorrow than you 
are laden with. 

And have you work to do, a living to earn, 
a destiny to fill ? Then do it as 'twas given you ; 
bear up as well as you can; think how many 
are more miserable than you are, and if you 
have little ones, — have daughters to love and 
care for, — teach them aright and thank God that 
the heart treasures you would take over the river 
with you are not, by your neglect, carelessness, or 
negligence, lost overboard as food for the sharks 
which so thickly infest life's sea. And teach 



She Brought a Skeleton, 195 

your sons to be good, honorable, upright; to be 
men with pluck enough to defend those who are 
innocent, that they may not, from lack of protec- 
tion, give and partake of other dishes than those 
flavored by love and restrained by reason. Then 
will we all be better and the less to give us 
sorrow when comes to the week, or to the life, 
Saturday Night. 





XXII. 




Going IIo:vrE. 

f ^Sl^ not grand? 

ImA. Ji nother Saturday Xiglit — seven leagues 
nearer home — seven links nearer heaven 
— seven of His steps nearer tlie throne of love 
eternal; most wondrous, grand, and beautiful. 
Is it not grand? This idea of death. E"ot 
death, for there is no death ! But the sleeping 
(196) 



Going Home. 197 

here to waken there to the new and the eternal 
when there will be no more weary struggling, 
relying so much on our own efforts; but lines 
and lights, duties and occupations clearly de- 
fined. On being brought to light we shall see 
glories in the East, shall be advanced to the 
Most High for instructions and rewards, and 
then shall know something of the wonderful bo 
many dread to reach. 
Death! 
Life ! 

And life eternal ! Is it not grand to contem- 
plate the calling home and the removing of that 
which prevents our seeing into or of the future ? 
So-called death is nothing. We lay aside the 
garb of labor, the soiled garments worn to 
protect our bodies from the dirt of the shop, 
and bid the week " good-bye," to enter upon the 
Sabbath— eternal rest. AYlio regrets bidding his 
shopmates or fellow-laborers " good-night" when 
the work of the week is ended and he can throw 



198 Our Saturday Nights, 

off the dirty apron and go to meet liis treasures 
— the loved ones, who wait his coming as he will 
wait the coming of others ? 

"We take shopmates and fellow-laborers we 
love home with ns to be with them while we rest. 
So shall we take our loved ones, that is, our 
dearly loved ones, home with us to the Eternal 
Gardens, where the flowers that bloom are our 
good deeds, planted on earth to blossom in 
Heaven. And who of us have planted? Who 
of us are planting? Who of us dare plant — 
have pluck to do right and plant for eternity ? 

Who would walk the Eternal Gardens and see 
others resting under the shades, enjoying the 
delicious perfumes of good deeds done on earth, 
themselves with never a tree or flower to show ? 

Then we shall see the glories and the mys- 
teries of the hereafter; shall be with the loved 
ones who wait our coming; shall see and know 
the infinite Power to whom our prayers have 
been made; shall, perhaps, know of the won- 



Going Rome. 199 

drous plans of Him who is so far above us, and 
rest as does the infant on its mother's breast, its 
Heaven, happy beyond words in having reached 
the gardens of God, rather than being lost in the 
wilderness outside His beautiful realms. 

With Him will dwell those who love Him; 
not the cold and rotten of heart, who claim qual- 
ities they possess not. With Him will be those 
who have faith, hope, love, — a part of God him- 
self, — in their hearts; those who dare to, and 
try to do right by all; who have hearts that 
ache, and eyes that weep for the woes of others. 

Those who dread death are those who do not 
deserve it; those who deserve no release from 
the cares, trials, struggles, betrayals and disap- 
pointments of this which we call, but which is 
not, life. This " waiting-room," filled with those 
who know us not, who tread us down to rush 
past and over us, is not Home. We are simply 
passengers, waiting here in the smoke, dirt, dust, 
profanity, and wickedness of life for the arrival 



200 Our Saturday Nights, 

of the coach which is to take its Ilome ! And 
there we shall find our friends, and generous 
welcome. Those who are going to their loved 
ones are happy. Those who are going to 
prison, and who go they know not where, go 
simply because they can no longer stay. God 
pity them, for they need pity ! 

The only thing is this : What will they say of 
US when others fill our places ? What will those 
who join in, look at, or hear of our funeral and 
burial say? Will we be missed, or will our 
going be like the wind which passes, is gone, and 
no one cares whither ? God grant that they say 
of ns all more of good than they are called to 
forget and forgive of the bad. And may we, 
when going home, leave no memory of wrong, 
of neglect, of sharp, bitter words, of nnkindness, 
or good deeds we might have done, omitted ; for 
after we have gone home there will be no return- 
ing, — no renewal of labor or another week to 
improve on or correct the errors of this. Give 



Going Home. 201 

us all hearts to do riglit ; to speak well of those 
we know not of, or know to be good. Give us, 
who have opportunities to do good, a heart to 
heed and an eye to see wherein our duty and our 
true happiness lies, that dying or going home, 
our thoughts may be of love and faith rather 
than of dread and soul-piercing regrets. 

Little by little, we mount upward, step after 
step. Little by little we win victories ; here a 
triumph, there another. Little by little we win 
love, and prove our manhood. Little by little 
we earn and build around us till the waste 
becomes fertile, tlie new home an old one, the 
cabin a cottage, the cottage a home, where are our 
earthly treasures of tlie lieart. Yf orking-man and 
brother, do you think? Waiting wife, toiling 
mother or hopeful betrothed, little by little your 
words mellow the heart and win him to you. 
"Working boy, who now bends to poverty's burden 
as ^ve have so oft, in the years agone, little by 
little the shadows come upon us, the flowers 



202 Our Saturday Nights. 

bloom, the fruit ripens, . the earnest endeavor 
wins success, and you mount to the higher plane 
of true manhood, as you are true, earnest, honest, 
industrious, and deserving of love, of fame, or 
position, as all who labor are deserving rest and 
reward when comes Saturday Night. 





XXIII. 

Soliloquy of a IIappy Mait. 



^^^N the prime of life and happy as the 
day is long. How few there are who 

^-^'' can say as much. Those who cannot 

I pity. I envy no man, for I am happy. I 

have health and am contented. It is true I 

own no palace, no carriage; no great wealth 

to bother me, and annoy with unceasing care; 

yet I am very happy for all. 

(203) 



204 Our Saturday Nights. 

I have worked like a man. When I could not 
do better I was content w^itli doing well. "When 
I had health I preserved it, and when in need of 
money earned it. "Wliile others dissipated I 
rested, and gained strength for the cares, duties, 
and labors of the morrow. 

The days came, some bright and some 
cloudy ; but they were no worse to me than 
others, nor were all the beauties for me alone. I 
did not expect too much ; then I was not disap- 
pointed. The weeks came and went, but did not 
rob me of my manliood. I spent no hours in re- 
pining. Throwing dirt against a window you 
cannot see through will not remedy the defect of 
vision, or make the view more clear. 

I have a home, and some one to love me as I 
do her. And my home is the happiest in all the 
world. We try to make it so. She and I try, 
and we never weary. Years ago I told her 1 
loved her. And I did love her. And she loved 
me. Our years were fewer than now. "When 



Soliloquy of a Hajpjpy Man. 205 

we plighted troth, and when we knelt before the 
altar, I took her to my heart, as she took me to 
hers. And I have tried to be good. When I 
did not wish to fall or stumble, I kept away from 
temptation, and thus lost all desire to walk in 
dangerous places. Being a man, it was my duty 
to provide a home and strive to adorn it. Little 
by little, as I gained the means, have I done so, 
till, from the desert of life, has sprung a loved 
place of rest, and here we live in, by, and for 
each other. 

Sometimes little clouds come up ; but we look 
not upon them and they soon go. Sometimes I 
am sick, tired, weary. Then she loves me even 
more tenderly, holds my aching head to her 
heart, presses the hair back from my brow, kisses 
me so sweetly ! and my troubles sink into the 
fading fog of the past under her loving, caressing, 
and gentle touch. She whom I love is very, 
very good to me, and I could not be otherwise to 
her and be a man. 



206 Our Saturday Nighis, 

"We share our joys and sorrows. We strive to 
please each other, and pay little attention to the 
words of otliers, and thus secure happiness. And 
when she is tired and sick, then it makes my 
heart large to help her, to pet her, to love and 
care for her. Then her heart is at rest, her mind 
at ease; she says the look of my eyes is more 
than medicine, and the gentle touch of love more 
than all the world for her restoration. 

We are not ashamed to love each other. This 
we promised. We are not ashamed if others 
laiow it. God keep our hearts thus mated, and 
who shall say "nay"? We live for each other. 
We live in the house we live in, and not in the 
one across the way ! We are happy because we 
strive to be. We love each other because we 
have so promised. We care for each other, for 
thus is that love which grows and blesses us 
w^atered and invigorated. I want none of that 
wliich is forbidden, for it brings no good or hap- 
piness, and I'd rather keep unsullied the man- 



Soliloquy of a Hajppy Man. 207 

hood which wins and retains the love of the pure, 
loving, trusting heart I am so happy in keeping. 

And days I work for her — for us — for our 
home. And nights I rest. We sit by the same 
iire, quaff from the same cup, read by the 
same light, read each other's eyes; and when 
that irresistible impulse calls lip to lip, and heart 
to heart, not for the wealth of kings or greatness 
of empires would I give up or forsake the bower 
where our love is undisturbed, no matter at 
whose coming. 

Yes, I am happy. We are happy. Our house 
is but small, but our hearts are large. She never 
speaks cross to me, nor I to her. At times when 
I ^vrite there comes behind me a soft footstep ; 
I feel the presence of a loved one ; I close my 
eyes to receive a gentle kiss on my forehead ; an 
arm steals around my neck ; as I turn my head 
eyes that tell so much meet mine ; our lips meet ; 
she sits on a low chair, with head resting on 
my lap; my writing is only interrupted as I 



208 Out Saturday Nights. 

bend over at times to kiss tlie eyes and lips of 
lier wlio is resting, and we are very, very happy. 
And sometimes, when I am tired and weary, it 
is my head that rests in her lap. She works and 
talks to me, or reads while I toy with her hand, 
listen, half dreamingly, to her voice, and wonder 
how many years God will give ns thus to love 
each other on earth before we are called home. 
Then we talk of the past, the present, and the fu- 
ture. And we, w^hile thus resting, unreel the rib- 
bon of the past to find but few spots other than 
of beauty thereon. And when we find such a 
spot, we write "repentance" across it, that when 
God sees it He may know we have suffered and 
sorro^ved and tried to atone for the making it. 
Then we feel happier. Then we rest sweeter in 
each other's hearts, and for fear I may die and 
leave her to battle on alone, I plan to-day and 
work to-morrow for her protection after I am 
gone, if it is for me to prepare a place for her in 
the eternal land. 



Soliloquy of a Eajpj^y Man, 209 

Perhaps you do not like this, my writing, but I 
do not care. We are happy. Even now her 
head rests under my left hand, and since the first 
word of this paragraph my lips have rested on 
hers. And we find our happiness in pleasing 
each other, and with this happiness comes 
strength to do what others fail in. 

And when comes the hour for labor on the 
morrow, we shall there be found. And such 
duties as the day may bring we will be ready 
for. And we'll try each to do our duty well. 
And when comes the morrow night, at home 
will we rest, for this is the secret of happiness. 
Others may dissipate and wander for the bit- 
ter-sweet; we are content to live as God in- 
tended. And we are not envious, for in time 
will come the luxuries of life, but they will 
not add to our happiness. 

Yes, I am happy; for I try to be. I 
strive to live for some good. I use only kind 
words. I try to benefit others, and have the 



210 Our Saturday Nights, 

manliood to do that which 1 deem a duty. 
And this course brings and retains the respect 
of the good. It gives me the love and confi- 
dence of my friends ; and those who are not, it 
is not worth while to strive to please. And as 
I am happy, so can others be if they will, even 
if they are, like me, simple laborers, taking care 
to avoid paths which lead to temptation, and 
not afraid or ashamed to be men for the pres- 
ervation of that manhood which no poverty 
can wrest from us, if we respect ourselves, and 
which gives us strength to work the daj^s of 
the week, and a relish for rest, with work 
well done, when comes the Saturday iN'ight. 





XXIY. 

Yeet Lonely. 

NCE more! Another Saturday ISTiglit! 
Again has the raven borne its load 
of seven bundles back to the shelves 
of the past, to be entombed till the final set- 
tling! Another weekly volume bound and 
laid away, — each of the seven chapters the 

book contains sealed forever. No matter 

(211) 




212 Our Saturday Nights. 

how many blots or wrong figures, we cannot 
open the Yolume to erase or change — the 
record is complete so far. 

Om- past is His present! It is His safe 
wherein is locked, beyond the reach of onr 
opening or genius of our keys, life records to 
be looked at whenever He wills. And He 
calls us to settlement, whether we are ready 
or no. Oh! that none but good records were 
against all of us! 

But no more of this to-night. It is not of 
the past, and yet it is. All the week we have 
toiled with brain and hand, till head and 
body be weary. But now we can rest, and 
lift from the cooling spring of memory 
beadlets strung with pearl drops, wherein 
and whereon are beautiful pictures. "We see 
a thousand faces thus. Faces of those who 
little think we see them. We hear the laugh, 
the voices of friends, as we shape the pearls 
thus drawn out together, we feel the earnest 



Yery Lonely, 213 

grasp of heart-warmed hands, and live over 
again the years that are lost, as a traveller 
would retrace his steps, and stop only at the 
most beautiful places he visited in the years 
afled. 

And as we look these scenes over, we feel 
lonely to-night. No one in the room save 
ourself and the unseen spirits which fill the 
air, and which come and go at our heart- 
stilled bidding. The white dial of the watch 
before us seems to-night so much like a face 
we know: often have our eyes rested thereon. 
We listen to the ^Hliink-quick — tliinh-quich^^ 
of the heart-work of this little mechanism, 
and cannot half think. 

• • • • •! • • 

All gone! 

The loved guests we had with us have 
gone. There were spirits of those who have 
crossed the river before us, — and the spirits 
of those who to-night are dreaming. For do 



214: Our Saturday Nights. 

you not know that when we sleep our souls 
journey. Sometimes to lands we know not 
of as we live. Sometimes to greet spirits 
over yonder! Sometimes wandering with 
spirits from over there! And sometimes we 
wander among old scenes known before we 
became of earth, as in the future state we 
will roam the aisles of the past, which is our 
present. "When we sleep, school is out, and 
spirits play! And sometimes we sleep while 
awake, — and start, we know not why! It is 
only the spirit — the soul, which has been 
playing truant, visiting miles away — returned 
to its penance I 

When the old house is worn out we move 
into another one ! And this is all there is 
of death. And were it not that all we love 
cannot go at the same time with us to the 
new home, we would not care how quick the 
old house might fall. 

... At times we feel sad and lonely. 



Yery Lonely, 215 

Waves run not smooth like placid water, nor 
does life. It may "over yonder," and this 
is our hope, our full faith. 

But to-night we miss somebody. Our 
thoughts are with some one else. The room 
seems very still. I^ever so still before. We 
long to he there, — to be away from here ; to 
look into certain eyes adown whose depths 
are traced characters others cannot, but which 
we can read. We would feel the soft, sweet 
breath of some one; we wait the pen for a 
hand to touch ours, for loved fingers to rest 
as before on our almost bursting temples; 
but alas ! the eyes are not before ns only 
as they glide with the pen point across the 
paper on which we write! And the dear 
fingers will not still the throbs which pain 
ns. The sweet lips we have so often pressed 
the very soul upon and into will' not come 
to us to-night, nor can we feel the throbbing 
of that heart wherein we know our image 



216 Out Saturday Wights, 

is enshrined as an emerald is surrounded by 
diamonds pure and of wonderous lustre. 

Did you ever wish somebody with you 
when miles were holding hands, not hearts, 
apart? Did you who read these lines ever 
feel so hungry because some one more than 
loved was not with you? Did you ever pace 
the floor, press against the pane, listen to 
footsteps, grow heartsick over an absent one, 
till it seemed as if you must go somewhere, 
anywhere? Did you ever grow faint and 
weary of life in knowing that somebody^ no 
matter who, w^ere away, and you just dying 
for their presence? 

When the work of the day is ended, then 
we want rest. !N"ot alone the easy chair, the 
yielding sofa; not one of your hard, stiff, 
quakerish contrivances, but a comfort; not 
alone the carpeted floor and pictured walls, — 
that which gives rest to eye and body, — but 
we want rest for the heart. Basking in the 



Yery Lonely, 217 

sunshine of love. Loved lips, speaking eyes, 
gentle hands, kind words, generous kisses 
given by pure, sweet, unstained, unpolluted 
lips. This is rest. To know that some 07ie, 
no matter who, — and yet it does matter, — 
is with you, by you, of you, for you, to you, 
pure, good, loving, gentle-hearted, is the hea- 
ven of this life, as God is of the next. 

But to-night we are alone; yet not alone. 
The words she said, the kisses she gave us, 
the caresses none can rob us of ; the plans, 
and hopes, and promises, and darings of and 
confidence in the future, — all these are with 
us. Like gauze over choice paintings, so does 
her love keep from us that which mars and 
weakens. 

Pretty soon! Before many days or weeks! 
We shall meet again. Yery soon in dreams. 
We will find her when the body is at rest. 
We will not be lonely then, for long before 
morning we will be more than a hundred 



218 Our Saturday Nights. 

leagues away, and whither we go we will not 
tell! 

And some day! 

Thank God for that! Then we who work 
can rest. If we save we shall enjoy! If we 
are good we shall be happy; that is, happier 
than if we are not. And we can work for 
others, can speak kind words for those who 
toil, and suffer, and sorrow, and hope, and wait, 
and with brave, patient, trusting hearts, sit on 
the shore of the inrolling sea, waiting for the 
golden ship and the calm which settles on the 
waves to still them. God bless those we love, 
all whom we work for, and keep all from 
the perils of this and every Saturday Mght. 











XXY. 

About Otir Neighbor. 

ATUEDAY NIGHT of last week 

our neighbor lived beside us, in a 

little home all his own. We have 

chatted with him by the hour. Where lie 

came from we do not know. He was a good 

fellow; we liked him, and never thought to ask 

where he came from. When came Saturday 

(219) 



220 Out Saturday Nights. 

Kight, he would come to our little study and 
talk with us, sometimes half an hour. 

Then he would go home to his dear ones of 
the heart, and love them, and kiss them, and 
pet them, and romp with them. His wife al- 
ways seemed so happy; her eyes, dark and 
beautiful, ran over with love, and when his name 
was mentioned, would sparkle as her heai*t 
danced to the joyful tune, " My darling is he, 
and all mine own." 

Sometimes we could hear them reading to each 
other. Once we saw him reading by her side as 
she sat rocking to sleep a dear little one in her 
arms. He read from a book, and as he read one 
hand rested carelessly, but speaking volumes, on 
one of hers, inspiring him with the good. 
Then we saw through the broken bHnd, as we 
stood against the fence watching, that she 
stopped her rocking, looked tenderly upon the 
face of her sleeping babe, and then upon the 
loved and manly form beside her. Their eyes 



Alout Our WeigJibors, 221 

met. He closed the book, and drew his chair 
still nearer— rested his head on her bosom 
beside the face of the little sleeper, with his 
face upturned. She looked upon her treasures 
a moment; a tear fell from her eyes; their lips 
met and drank from the luscious joy and happy 
fulness of the heart. 

They were happy; and we mused in our room 
an hour, disturbed at last by the walk of a 
drunken man going to his home. 

Ours was a good neighbor. He minded 
his own business. He spoke but kind words. 
He worked in a blacksmith-shop. His hands 
were very hard, and his muscles! How we 
envied him this overplus of strength. What he 
had he earned, and what he earned he 
saved to beautify his home. He was not stingy 
nor miserly. He gave dimes to poor children, 
and was for his little ones a God-given play- 
thing, dearer to them than all the toys in the 
world. He left his care in the shop; took his 



222 Our Saturday Nights, 

heart home, hung his dignity with his coat on 
a hook, and lived for the ones he loved. And 
that is the way to live. "Why bother to please 
those who care not for you? 

This Saturday our neighbor moved away. 
"We knew he was intending to go soon. He 
told us months ago that a man was building a 
new house and a better one for him over the 
river, on a neat, clean, wide street! He said 
he was going there to live, and to earn better 
wages in another shop. And he said his loved 
ones would be nearer. We told him, years ago, 
if he wanted a better place to work in, and 
a better house to live in, and better times gen- 
erally, it lay in his power to obtain them. And 
he worked, and saved, and kept his manhood pure 
and unweakened by excess or dissipation. He 
wanted to have a better home, and he saved 
his earnings till at last he could have a better 
one. 



About Our N'eighhors. 223 

We don't know as jet where it is, but are to 
go over the river in a few days and will find him. 
We have the directions. We know who he went 
to work for. A very liberal employer, who em- 
ploys none but the best and most deserving work- 
men ! And His work is always perfect. We 
know where to find our neighbor when we go 
over there, and shall be glad to meet him. A 
wagon came and took him away. And it took 
all he had ever earned. The good man sent 
the wagon, but we did not know who drove it. 

It is a little lonesome now, for our neighbor 
has moved. We look at the little worn-out house 
he left, and look ahead with joy to the time when 
we shall leave our little house for a better one 
over where he has gone. We know where he has 
gone, for all these years he has been wishing to 
be there — to better himself when he moved ; and 
as he has laid up something and proved himself 
a good workman, he would not go into a poorer 



224 Our Saturday Nights, 

house, or work for a poorer employer than he had 
on this side the river. 

This house where our neighbor lived is empty. 
It is to be torn down in a few weeks, and the 
material all carried away. But our neighbor has 
gone to a better house, for he was a good and a 

deserving man. 

• • •• • •• 

Oar neighbor has gone! 

We did not see him go. But to-day we saw a 
span of horses drawing his house away! His 
house was in a long affair used for moving such 
houses. It was moved away for the reason that 
our neighbor had got through with it — gone to 
his beautiful home over the river, where the 
smiles of God tint the flowers of the eternal, and 
where all is love, kindness, and that perfection 
unknown here. 

"We shall not weep over the house oiu' neighbor 
— our good friend — moved from, for that will 
do no good. To be sure, it is lonesome without 



About Our Neighbors. 225 

him, but we know where to find him. The other 
day a man moved away, but we know not where 
he went to. He had no steady employment 
when he lived by us. He worked for almost any 
one, but he was not a good workman, and could 
find no employment O'lier there! He worked 
mostly for himself, and people took but little 
interest in him. He had some friends, but they 
lived all about in bad places, and we think he 
has gone to find them. We are sorry we did 
not go over the river, but cannot help it. 

And before long we shall go to meet our 
friend. And he will introduce us to the other 
workmen, and indorse us ; and we shall all be 
friends at once, and be with those who are there 
paid hourly and not compelled to wait till the 
coming of Saturday Night. 
15 




XXYI. 

Plain Words to Those we Love about oue 
Home. 




made it. 

A home. 'Not a palace full of umised 
rooms, strange echoes, deserted cham- 
bers, hollow sounds, musty smells, and horrible- 
patterned carpets ; but a neat, cosy home, where 

we live every day, happy in what we have, en- 

(226) 



Plain Words about our Home. 227 

vious of no one, caring for onr real wants, and 
giving no hospitality to imaginary ones. 

A few years since we began withont a dollar. 
One night onr palms rested in each other, onr 
lips met as never before, we promised earnestly 
and faithfully; have kept vows deeply graven 
on onr hearts. 

Then we started out on the voyage of united 
love. The great sea sang murmuring at our 
feet. Its distance was flecked with tiny sails 
There were icebergs and green isles in the dis- 
tance, but none near the velvet shores ! Is it 
thus to tempt people ? So or not so, those who 
look beyond the reach of momentary vision can 
see open sailing, — that icebergs can be missed 
and the green isles far out yonder be reached. 

But not except those who sail the craft be of 
one mind! Let both steer for the same port 
and channel: it will be reached. But, alas! 
too many sail on, wrapped only in the present 
squandering of the future, and soon put back foi 



228 Our Saturday Nights, 

another craft or float on the surf that throws 
and dashes and spatters itself in mockery oyer 
the rock-ribbed shore, not harder than the com- 
posite of error on which many a frail bark is 
stranded. 

There is much in mating. There is much 
more in not overloading the craft. There is 
much in not taking too many passengers with 
you ; and there is much in working the ship 
together, and very much in not giving to others 
the delicacies which never outlast the voyage 
except used only by those who put them up for 
their own use! 

But no more of the sea: we must not float 

So far from the Shore — 

So far from our Home — 

So far from our Love — 

So far from our Duty — 

So far from our Happiness — 

So far from Ourselves! 



Plain Words about our Home, 229 

How did we win this home? 

Little by little. Thanking God for yesterday, 
for to-day, for to-morrow; for hope and for 
pluck. It did seem hard to begin from nothing 
years ago, but we thus begun. We decided to 
fit our craft for a long voyage, in hope to visit 
very many of the distant isles. So we saved. 
What was earned by the plow, the spade, the 
scythe, the axe, the pick, the labor of hands, 
was saved ; not to be hoarded, but to be spent. 

The money earned in the shop by the forge 
fire did not float off in steam like the water put 
on burning coal; it did not thin off into shav- 
ings fit only to kindle desires; it did not drop 
into the pile of cloth scraps, leather bits, and 
waxed ends ; we did not leave it fastened to 
the cup of dissipation, nor invest it in weeds 
to grow up and choke our manhood. 

It was saved for the good it might do ; was 
paid to those who built our home, and those who 
in a thousand other places were working to make 



230 Our Saturday Nights. 

this and tliat of the useful and beautiful, to be 
purchased, paid for, and enjoyed by all who 
would or will make home attractive. 

Is it not wonderful how working-men help 
each other? And how little We do for those 
who made all these beautiful things for us! — 
these carpets, chairs, tables, pictures, glass, and 
frames; the house we live in, the stove we cook 
upon, the bed we sleep on, the food we eat, the 
clothes we wear, the dishes we use, the medicines 
we take, the piano we listen to, the jewelry our 
loved wears, the books and papers we read; 
the pen we use, the ink we are wasting, the 
watch which tells us of the hour, the curtains 
which exclude the glance of eyes outside as 
we sit writing, stopping only to pet, and kiss, 
and love the dearest one on earth, — who says 
she cannot help loving us ! 

Why ! If all the men and women, boys and 
girls, who had worked on the articles in our 
home should call to-night; who would — who 



Plain Words about our Home. 231 

could care for our guests ? They would be here 
by the thousand ! Yerily, the idea, the truth of 
our own littleness, as we have to think of how 
little account we are to others, and how many 
others work for us, is enough to drown the soul 
into its own shrinkage! 

But it is not of this — but our home. 

When night comes, here we rest to gather 
strength and grow heart-mellow in love. Here 
we have a castle a king might envy, all won by 
honest toil. The rooms are always so neat and 
in order. The bedclothes clean, the sweeter to 
rest for the better health for the morrow. "We 
have not so much as one cross word in all the 
year. We care not what others say of us, for 
the sun of happiness draws its warmth, not from 
what others say or do, but what we do or think 
of ourselves. 

Wlien our friends come they are very wel- 
come. Little or much that we have, they are 
indeed welcome. We never fix up for anybody; 



232 Our Saturday Nights, 

but keep fixed up, as good wives say, for 
ourselves. Then we are never surprised. If 
people come to see us they are welcome. If 
they come to feast on fat things, they can have 
no better than we have, without going to a hotel, 
— and then they may not. If we have a crust, 
and that only, half is theirs. "We have no 
parlor for them alone, for it is all parlor in our 
home ; all as nice as we can have it ; we keep 
no room locked, darkened, musty, and unopened 
only at stated seasons, to show how foolish we 
are not to enjoy the good and comfort of life 
as we live, while waiting, as it were, for the 
hearse. 

The best we have earned is none too good for 
our love, who is the best of all, and for her are 
all these purchased. We do not like to see peo- 
ple sit in the hot sun when a shade is close by, 
nor live in bare rooms in order to show people 
they do not know how to enjoy parlors. Empty 
parlors are but musty tortures : vain displays of 



Plain Words about our Home. 233 

* 
taste used in too many instances only for wed- 
dings and funerals. Eightly kept, tliey are 
homes; securely locked up, they are prisons or 
sepulchres of ignored joys, comforts, and happi- 
ness. 

Our home is our parlor. Our parlor is our 
home. "We labor day after day. And as our 
will to dare, and power to accomplish, like the 
darkness, fades out before the coming of the 
great light, we strive for the goldening of 
our love, for the beautifying of our home 
for the great preparation. Those who care 
not for their homes here, — how can they care 
for them in the hereafter? The present is but 
the fitting of the future. As we strive here we 
are rewarded there. You need not tell us that 
we enter our new homes as we came here, — 
empty-handed or empty-hearted. 

What did Christ say about the talent which 
was hidden in a napkin? Pause and look for 
the meaning of the simile. 



234 Out Saturday Wights. 

All we earn, save, or gather here of the good, 
the pure, and the noble, is credited to ns over 
there! If we care not for ourselves in honor, 
for others in love ; if we toil not to-day for the 
rest " to-morrow," why should He or others this 
side of Him care for us? 

We wish and pray that more of our work- 
ing-men may have better homes ; that they may 
more earnestly care for their earnings, their 
lives, their manhood. Those who do not are 
not the happy ones. Nor are their families. 
IN'ot care to hoard, but to beautify, to adorn, to 
clothe, to educate. The noblest men in the 
land are the sons of working-men, mechanics, 
laborers, farmers, who have oft been sneered at 
on account of their poverty. The happiest 
homes are those built on the enduring founda- 
tion of honest toil. We would see every home 
happy. Would throw open the musty parlors, 
swing the blinds, clear out the dust and cob- 
webs ; fill closets with clothes, libraries . with 



Plain Words about our Home. 235 

books, cupboards with food, the home with 
laughter and cheerfulness, and the heart with 
joy. We would see the wife and little ones 
happier, the husband more contented and en- 
couraged, parents more proud of and kind to 
their children, children set good examples and 
taught good manners, with neatness and gentle- 
ness. 

And we would see men of hearts and desires 
to do good, stand closer by each other and by 
the unfortunate, to protect and love. 

"We would ignore and abolish the laws which 
now rob the working-man of hard-earned money 
for the benefit of those who pay no taxes on 
ill-gotten incomes ; would wipe out as with red- 
hot fire the prohibition which comes to us 
through Puritanism, and lay the foundation for 
high deeds, noble resolves, great undertakings, 
and that success which marks our progression to 
worthiness of future greatness by the firesides 
and in the liomes of the working-men of the 



236 Out Saturday Niglits. 

land, who are our real and only princes for tlie 
present, and joint heirs for the future. 

Who of our friends — of our readers — of the 
public we strive, but can do so little for — 
will have the pluck to begin a new life and 
devote more time and more of his earnings to 
making his home more attractive than pei^ 
chance it may be this Saturday ITight. 





XXYII, 

^ The Old Woman. 

'HIS Saturday Mglit, as we were walking 

home chatting with a little six-year-old 

girl from whom we had bought a little 

bouquet, we saw a great burly man run against 

a fruit-stand and upset it. A few oranges and 

pineapples rolled into the gutter, while an old^ 

wrinkled, sad-faced woman, with rheumatic 

(237) 




238 Our Saturday Nights, 

joints, tried to fix up the broken stand. To 
say, " Here, stranger ! settle with the good 
woman," was but natural ; but he blustered on, 
only turning his head to mutter, — 

" Hang your old woman ; let her keep out of 
the way ! " 

IN'ow, this was all very independent, for it 
showed that he who hastened on was a man! 
But we felt like hating him from that moment. 
A great, large man, and so unfeeling ! We pity 
his mother. "We pity him, aye, more than we 
did the old woman whose fruit we helped the 
little girl pick up, and whose broken fruit-stand 
we helped ^^. He needs pity, as any man does 
who has a brutal heart. And we pity his mother, 
who would never have thought this of her boy. 

Only an old woman ! 

We do not like any person who does not show 
love and respect for the aged ones, who at best 
can be with us but a little while. God knows, 
the sorrows that come naturally about the sun- 



The Old Woman, 239 

down of life as swallows homeward fly, are 
more than we know of, and he is unworthy the 
name of man who is not kind to the aged. No 
matter if they are at times cross and peevish. 
The spar wliich lies a wreck on the beach, listen- 
ing to the roar and whisperings of the ocean it 
once rode npon, has reason to be warped and 
rough ! So with those who have battled in vain 
with life and grown heart-weary over its trials, 
sorrows, and disappointments. 

"Who was this old woman? 

We know not. And from her sad face we 
judge none others know! But Once? Yes, 
once she was a baby, — sweet, smiling, winsome. 
Then she was petted and admired. The years 
came in turns and laid their wreaths at her feet, 
and on them she stepped to womanhood. Then 
her eyes were bright, her step elastic, and her 
young heart was filled with the gentle whispers 
of that love which so often leads to but seldom 
occupies the charming castles of its wondrous 



240 Out Saturday Nights, 

creating. Then she was not old nor ngly. 
Smiles like bits of golden sunshine pictured her 
face as lovers gazed thereon. Her hand was 
not skinny as now when it rested in his years 
ago, nor was her eye filled with ashes of life and 
love as now. 

Then she was not an old woman, but was fair 
and sweet, perchance like the one the brusque, 
brutal man was going to visit to-night ; the one 
he too will abuse if the years rest shadows on 
her face and form till she becomes an old woman. 
The man who is not good to the old will be cruel 
and spiteful to any one he may profess to love 
when the fantasies of desire have feasted their 
fill ; and there comes even a momentary despon- 
dency to the best of hearts. 

They were years of the past when she was 
young. Then some " old woman" was caring for 
the man who has no little heart for the aged. 
And she who is now old had her loves, her 
hopes, her dreamings of the future. The love- 



TU Old Woman, 241 

liglit came to and went from her eye, as words 
from the heart of another called beautiful visions 
to her future beholding. The cares of life came 
to her. One by one troubles settled round her 
path like beasts of prey waiting to spring on 
innocent victims. The hopes of early years went 
one by one out, tilled or unfilled, but never more 
to return, for the links of life have no second 
coming. 

Companions of younger days went to their 
new homes here or in the hereafter, leaving the 
woman who is now old. The hours of sickness, 
the grave ; thus, one by one, went her sunshines 
to shades, and for each loss or hope unfilled 
came a wrinkle, as time kept most faithful 
account! God pity her now, for her charms 
sleep under the sod of the terrible past, never 
more to come to grace her face or form till tlie 
renewal of all this in the beautiful home over 
the river. 

The young live in the future ; none of us, or 
16 



242 Our Saturday Niglits. 

very few, live in tlie present ; the old live in the 
past J and their sunset hoars are more upon fading 
than growing pictui-es. And while the young 
array and look at the ribbons for the morrow, 
the old must content be with resting eyes on 
the weeds of the past, and their hearts on deeds 
of goodness or charity. How few of us think of 
the old people ! Cares of business or hopes for 
pleasure drive them from our hearts. Perhaps it 
was so with them once, yet we hope it will not 
be so with us. It is up hill to the summit, or 
down to the grave, and the path dovni the 
mountain is slower than the one going up ! 

We pity the aged. Looking on their faded 
beauty, their weakening steps, their decrepit 
forms, we often wonder what we shall do when 
thus we come to their milestones, if, so be it, ours 
be the travel so far before comes the nearing 
shore. If the years come, the joys of now must 
go ! It will not be always that we can be strong 
and earnest, filled with hot blood, deep desires. 



The Old Woman. 243 

and an appetite for the varied dishes of life, 
from which we, who are in the full flush of 
health and vigor of maturing years, enjoy. 

The touch of love which now sends that wild, 
delirious thi-ill from soul to soul will in time be 
less than now. The flowers will become tangled 
vines laden with memories, but devoid of that 
beauty now so charming. The prizes for which 
we all grasp will come and go, and we will be 
kindly dealt by in God's own good way as we 
have been kind to the poor and the aged ones 
here with us, but not long to stay. Do not pass 
them roughly by. What was once all theirs, is 
now all ours ; or it will be soon. And what is 
ours will some day belong to others ! Life, nor 
riches, nor greatness rests with us alone forever. 
We drink and pass the cup ! The train darts by : 
others saw it before; they will after we have 
gazed thereon. 

It costs but little to be kind to the aged. And 
kind words fall on old hearts like dew on fading 



244 Our Saturday Nights, 

flowers, bringing anew tlie fragrance of the past. 
Be kind to the aged people, who toil and strive, 
that they may not be burdensome. Not alone to 
those who gave you bone and blood, but to all. 
It is wicked to be cruel to departing guests, who 
so soon are going to more beautiful homes than 
ours here on earth, where all are alike loved, and 
where all find the rest which we hope will be 
when shall come to us the final Saturday Night. 






XXYIIL 

The Fa^oly Eecoed. 

[aTUEDAY night again! How tlie 

weeks come and go, singly here ; blended 

into one varied past as they are called 

to His presence. To-night we opened the Bible 

by chance, at the Family Eecord. Singular! 

Exactly between the old and the new ; the past 

and the coming, so far as effects our future. 

(245) 



246 Our Saturday Nights, 

Bom! 

Married,! 

Died! 

Three words, and the sum of life is told. 

Born — and who cares for ns ? Only one or 
two. 

Married — and who cares for ns? As if 
there were more than one to answer! 

Died — O God! let us not be forgotten by 
those who say they love us, and who will not 
forget us, no matter whether married or died, 
given or mated, here or hence. Little would 
there be of life did not some one love us ; did 
we not think that some heart would hold our 
memory sacred, that 'way over the wondrous 
river, where the skies are brighter, the seasons 
more even, the joys sweeter, would we find 
waiting us, or stand waiting the coming of 
the loved. 

At best it is but a short stay here. Hardly 
long enough to become acquainted. Merely 



The Family Becord. 247 

an evening call, and — good-by! But so it is 
written, and so we are content. JSTo one escapes 
death. We do not wisli to. It makes bnt little 
difference whether we go at noon or sundown, 
if our new home be happy. Without a doubt 
or tremble we are ready to go, for ours is that 
full faith which has long since made the heart 
entirely at rest concerning the future. When 
the carriage comes we are ready to go; mean- 
while, we will look at the pictures, chat with 
our friends, or put the house a little more in 
order for those who remain, that they may 
not be compelled to do the work we might 
have done. 

And yet we do not care to go. All these 
beautiful skies, bright stars, trees, hills, rivulets, 
lakes, flowers, and the pastimes for humanity, 
will remain for others as toilet articles are 
left after we have gone to the party. We can 
part from the beauty of this world, for the 
flowers are over yonder. Buds here, flowers 



248 Our Saturday Nights, 

there. Aud we shall not care for the beauties 
we leave when at rest over there ! Age puts 
away the toys of childhood, for they are no 
longer wanted. 

But w^e had rather stay than go, for we do 
not laiow who will care for our loved ones ! 
Who will look over all the little scrolls of paper, 
— the letters, memorandums, and keepsakes ? 
Somebody. And they will smile at our odd 
fancies, and wonder why this little thing be 
here, and that one there, saved so carefully. 

Little will they know the history each could 
tell, or why we prized them, to preserve. Never 
breeze more laden with odor of perfume than 
these little keepsakes are with memories. Why 
we walk back to the distant bank of the past on 
these stepping-stones in the stream, others cannot 
see ! 

And who will care for the ones we love? 
Who will care for her who gave us that priceless 
jewel years ago? Who will care for the one 



The Family Record. 249 

who for years has been so good, so pure, so 
true, so kind, so loving ? This is the only real 
sting death has. They who walk hand in hand, 
palm in palm, for years on the road, cannot 
bear to part. Who will care for the one who 
with us, years ago, stepped, as it were, behind 
the screen, to wold liearts for the future ? For 
this we w^ould live ; for, the longer together on 
earth, the less time to wait for each other in 
heaven, as the beautiful home we are going; to 
is called. 

Who will protect her? Who will hold her 
to his heart, and open so wide the doors thereto 
that she may enter and know that all within is 
hers ? Wlio will love her as we do ? Wlio will 
hold her hand, still her troubles, look so truly 
and tenderly in her eyes, as we feel to ? Who 
will bear with her nervous hours, her little for- 
gettings, her sad moments, her need of love, as 
we would? In all this great big world God 
gave us is not one we would give her to. They 



250 Our Saturday Nights, 

may take our houses and lands, our books, pic- 
tures, letters, keepsakes, jewels, life, reputation, 
take all, for they are but things of oar creation, 
prized more in the chase than capture; but God 
gave us to each other, and may we be not long 
parted. She has been so good to us, so kind, 
so true, so earnest. Kever a wrong has she 
done us, or falsehood told. When came the 
stor-n, to our heart she came for shelter. When 
there was beauty in the sky, 'twas she who 
pointed it out to us. 

When others said we would fail, 'twas she 
who said we could not and would not, for love 
would sustain us. To be sure, ours was but the 
home of a working-man, but never did walls 
contain more priceless treasure. When others 
were cold and cruel in words, she was good and 
kind. When others doubted our purpose or 
honor, she never did, and thus made us strong 
and invincible. 

And her hand has soothed our pain, stilled the 



The Family Record. 251 

temples wildly throbbing ; lier eye gone into tlie 
depths of that darkness which, like a fog of 
Hades, at times envelops the stoutest and bright- 
est heart, to drive it away; her kiss has brought 
life and warmth to energies ; her words have so 
often kindled anew the fires of hope on an ash- 
covered hearth; her life, ideas, wishes, hopes, 
future and eternal resting have so woven in with 
ours that the great joy of life brings the great 
sting of death ! 

Who will protect the one we so love tlienf 
It is the only agony approaching dissolution 
doth bring. Will she be tempted? Perhaps, 
for all are. Will she fall ? l^o, a million times 
no ! Will she suffer % No, for we will work 
and save lest the one or ones so dear to us should 
come to want. No, we must not let her suffer ; 
we will guard against that, and if she be good 
and not selfish, this care will make her love us 
the more. And herein confess we to tenfold 
selfishness! But we cannot help it. 



252 Our Saturday Nights, 

And so we work, and love, and labor, and 
look to the future that we may not leave her, 
the best loved of all, to suffer, to mourn when 
we are sleeping undisturbed, visited only by her; 
she may be cared for, wrapped and safe in the 
mantle woven by our hands while on earth. We 
will earn a home. Will not lose it in dissipa- 
tion. Will not tarnish our love for her by 
contact \vith all; will not spoil the beautiful 
dinner she is ever preparing for us alone, by 
partaking of here a little and there a little as 
homeward we journey. He who truly loves 
knows what this means, and it means more 
than it contains words. 

The winds might blow very, very cold on her, 
and who would wrap the mantle of true love 
about her ; for who would know her worth as 
do we? And we know her heart would go 
down like lead into the waters of bitterness 
when came the hour which said, "Is'o more can 
he come." Others might be good to her, and 



The Family Record. 253 

kind, and gentle. But what is their "good" to 
our love, their "kind" to onr adoration, their 
"o-entle" to onr worship? And there are others 
who would mourn as we would, should they go 
down before ns, but these could live and love, 
comforted in their loves, which would absorb 
orief even for the dearest friends. 

And we should feel so sad and heartsore to 
think we must die or go home without ha\dng 
all the unkind words we may have hastily 
spoken, forgiven. Oh, how the memory of 
unkind words lives in the heart! Let ns not 
speak them to the ones we love. Let ns be 
better, more kind and gentle, bearing with 
each other, for none are quite perfect, none 
except our loves. And if they are, we must 
not speak nnkindly; if they are not, w^e mnst 
f oro-ive them ! Our homes may not be palaces ; 
w^e m.ay be children of toil; but we can have 
palaces in our hearts, and live happier than 
we do if we but strive aright, for he who wins 



254 Out Saturday Nights. 

by earnest striving best knows and enjoys the 
reward. 

We will strive, if we are poor. We will be 
a man, no matter how soon we may go or how 
long we may stay. "We will do by her as we 
promised in the years of the past, when, speaking 
by the card of ordainment, each soul said, " I 
have found it ! " And as we thus care for her 
will she love us, and we will save our own 
respect. And thus we can do good, can be of 
use, can more enjoy the beauty of life, and 
when our name is placed on the family record 
as Died^ shall know we live in memory and are 
thought of oftener than every Saturday Night. 







XXIX. 

The Poor Old Man. 

buried him this afternoon at four 

'clock. 

Just out of the city, in a corner of the 

graveyard, where the weeds, more tender than 

flowers, grow rank and close over the poor. Lats 

Saturday Night we saw him on the street, slowly 

walking to a cheap home. Seventy-eight years 

(355> 




256 Our Saturday Niglds. 

old, and no home of liis own; not a child or a 
chick to give him welcome night, but all wait- 
ing to bid him "good morning" over yonder on 
the flower-lined bank. 

He never begged. A sad, strange look was 
always upon him. Yet he was not cross nor 
ugly. He was cheerful, and would sit for hours 
talking to little children, and watching them at 
play. At times a few tears would fall from liis 
eyes, to be wiped from his furrowed cheek on 
the back of his wrinkled hand. He lived in a 
little house back on the prairie; a half -hovel 
affair ; and no one lived with him. Sundays the 
children would visit him, and bring water from 
a distant well, and wood by the armful. He 
gave them nothing but kind words, but they 
brought him bread, and meat, and fruit, and 
papers from our sanctum ; and when he was too 
lame to go out, the boys and girls would wait on 
him. Sometimes he would sit by the hour tell- 



The Poor Old Man. 257 

inff stories to his little friends. lie told the boys 

how to make arrows, and kites, and cross-guns. 
And he told them how to cure their sore toes 

and sore fingers, and when to fish; and that it 

was wrong to be ngly and cross. 

Tuesday evening one of the boys came and 

wanted us to go to Uncle Benny's cabin, for he 

was sick. We found him on his cot, very low 
and feeble. A cruel fever was warring upon 

that old body. Then we went for a physician, 
and with the old man staid till morning, when 
others came. His little friends brought oranges 
and lemons, jellies and wines from their homes. 
And a clean sheet was put under him, another 
over him ; cooling drinks were given him, anx- 
ious faces were all about him; but Friday 
morning, just as the sun rose above the bluff 
east of the city, his head slowly fell back, his 
mouth opened, there was a rattle in his throat, 
and as the sunshine struck the little cabin his 
17 



258 Our Saturday Nights. 

soul went out, riding on the golden beams of a 
new life. 

Gently we gave him to the winding-sheet, and 
more carefully combed than usual was the 
straggling hair which wanted to creep down over 
his forehead, to see if the eyes were never more 
to open! And a few kind women made liim a 
shroud, slighting never a part thereof. And a 
few men bought a neat coffin, paid the sexton, 
and this afternoon, men and women, and boys 
and girls, slowly walked behind him to his rest. 
We have attended burials, but never saw more 
tear-filled eyes than when the little ones looked 
for the last time upon poor Uncle Benny, as the 
coffin-lid was opened just before he was lowered 
to the great rest. ISTo one knew him other than 
as Uncle Benny, though for years he had come 
and gone with his crutch. His face was noble 
yet sad in its death-look, but it was not of 
suffering. 

And we went with others back to the silent 



The Poor Old Man, 259 

cabin. How more than lonely it seemed ! Two 
chairs taken from a neighbor's house on which 
to rest the coffin. A quaint old arm-chair, with 
a piece of worn sheepskin for cushion; a little 
old stove, a few tin dishes ; an old box serving 
purpose of table and chest ; a few old garments 
in pieces, some liniment in a bottle, and a few 
little articles worth nothing. 

"What shall we do with them?" 
" Oh, you take them ; look them over and do 
as you please, said they." 

In one corner of the chest was an old Bible, 
badly torn. And a little box, very, very old, as 
if made by a boy years ago. It would hold a 
quart, perhaps. It was tied seven times around 
with a peice of stout cord like a chalk-line. In 
it were a pair of dingy silk gloves, once white, 
but now faded into a sickly yellow. They were 
much too small for his hands. And a very old 
needle or pin cushion of black cloth, the size of 
an apple. And a letter, old, dingy, greased, and 



260 Out Saturday Nights, 

creased, folded in a piece of soft leather. And a 
plain gold ring, not mucli broader than the line 
of life in onr palm. 

The letter was too old to read. Its age no one 
could tell. But in it, on a peice of thick paper, 
in ink, long since bleached into faintest lines we 
read, — 

" Married — In Albany, May 6, 1813, Benjamin 
Waldower to Elizabeth Yan Dorn." 

And this was all. But it told its own story. 
Then we turned the paper over, to read written 
on the back of it, the lines, almost indistinct, — 

" Died — In Xewburg, February 17, 1814, Eliza- 
beth "Waldower and infant son." 

The story of a life! Poor old man! And 
this was his treasure; that was the ring. Oh, 
how long the years must have seemed while he 
was waiting to go to his loved ones ! And have 
they grown old there as he did here? Will he 
find them as they went, or have they felt years 
added where there are no years? 



The Poor Old Man. 261 

But will it not be grand when we can, at 
appointed time, solve the wondrous mystery, and 
know that of which we now know nothing? 
When we shall have pierced the veil, and gone 
home to rest with the loved ones there waiting % 

Who would fear to die or dread death? 
Surely not those who have so long been true 
to and waited for the rejoining the loved ones. 
If he had only told us his history! 

All over the land are poor old men, who have 
loved as we love, who have been young — have, 
with beating hearts, held heads upon bosoms, and 
lingered to revel in the perfume of kisses taken 
from lips, perhaps, long since gone, as we must 
all go! The old men were once young. They 
loved, and longed for twilight hours, as do those 
who now watch and wait the expected coming ; 
and the years crept slowly upon them, leaving 
line upon line, care upon care, joy upon joy, but 
more sorrows upon sorrows. But is it not ter- 
rible—this waiting to join those you love? 



262 Out Saturday Nights, 

Waiting the coming of the dear ones of the 
heart. Hours — days — weeks — months — years 
come and go while the weary, hungry soul, ever 
reaching for something not given it here on 
earth, doubts, fears, then hopes in the fullest of 
faith concerning the meeting and rejoicing in the 
eternal land, where there will be no more un- 
filled desires, for they rest forever in the grave. 
Let us all be good and kind to the poor old 
men ; God only knows what they have suffered, 
or when their hopes were buried. We are all 
growing old, are all going home ; and it may be 
those we despise on earth will be our guides and 
patterns in the future. Be kind to the aged. A 
few more Saturday Nights is all they will be with 
us, even if their presence should bother and 
annoy those who are utterly selfish. God only 
knows how much they sorrow and suffer. Let us 
make them happy. Let us be kind to each other. 
Uncle Benny was poor — a poor old man ; but he 
died rich. We all paid tearful tribute to his 



The Poor Old Man, 263 

TQemoiy. He was good. He was kind. He 
was deserving. He was not a miserly, selfish, 
sordid old man, as are many who live and die, 
leaving not one sincere mourner. And as we 
grow old, may we all be like him in having a 
place in the hearts of those who follow them in 
proper time! We'd rather sleep beside him in 
that qniet corner, than under the marble monu- 
ment of a cold, selfish man; for he would be 
better company in the city of the dead and of 
the hereafter, where there is a happy reunion for 
all who love here on earth; where the day is 
eternal, and there is no weary Saturday Kight. 





XXX. 

The Old Bureatj Drawers. 



:VST Saturday IS'iglit she was playing 



^^^^ about the house, her merry laugh and 

childish prattle having more of sunshine 

for those who loved her than ever fell at once 

on widest forest or prairie. We all loved her. 

She was winning; and never was a dearer little 

darling. One night she romped a little too 
(264) 



The Old Bureau Drawers. 265 

mucli. Her nerves, not strong, like lier 
mother s or her father's, were overwrought in 
play; she became fretful, as we all do, and 
her papa spoke harshly. Then the tears 
came to her Heaven-lit eyes, and she ran to 
rest her tired brain in the lap of her mamma. 
We heard the cross words; a leaden door 
seemed to close on our heart as we looked at 
the innocent prattler, then at the stern man, 
who was kind, but who forgot himself, and 
forgot that tender plants crush easily. Over 
the household came a shadow. The child's 
voice rang out no more in merriment; we 
all felt sort of sad, dark, trembly, like as if 
we wanted to say something, but could not. 

And the next day our little friend was 
sick. The doctor came. She had over-played, 
taken cold, and suffered. The next day she 
grew worse. More than one prayer went up 
to Him from her father; but one from the 
mother, for her's was all prayer. The next 



266 Our Saturday Nights. 

day she was worse, and the next day, resting 
her head on the bosom of her mother, she sank 
to sleep. The little cnrl before iis, in a little 
box, is all there is left to us, a friend of the 
family, of the little darling. We did not 
know how well we loved her till she went 
home to commence another term! 

This Saturday Kight we called in to say a 
word to those v/ho have loved and lost. The 
merry laugh, the childish voice, tlie romping 
over the floor, the climbing into our lap, the 
efforts to tease, and the scamperings liere 
and there were all gone. Great tears had 
spread themselves over the mother's eyes, 
the voice of the father was low and hushed, 
for the dearest darling of all was away. God 
knows we pitied them. We pitied him, for 
he would have given his own life to have 
recalled the sharp words. But she had gone 



The Old Bureau Drawers, 267 

home witli them, a scar upon lier heart, tender 
and painfuL 

TVe sat and talked, and, manly or not, our 
tears came with theirs, to drop into the cloud 
of sorrow before us. And while he sat, with 
hands on table, and head resting thereon, trj^- 
ing to reach to her for the words he liad 
given, and the life he had lost, we went with 
her into another room. She carried a lamp. 
It was a poor man's house, and not fitted witli 
gas and conveniences, as are the houses of the 
rich. Steadily the door was oi:)ened. The 
two windows were darkened b}^ curtains. In 
a corner of the room stood an old bureau. 
She pulled out a drawer, next but one to the 
top, and there were piled and packed all the 
little clothes of the one we mourned. 

The little dresses were there. The little 
shoes and stockings were in one corner, while 
in another were the little toys, once the delight 
of our little pet. There were little ribbons, 



268 Our Saturday Nights. 

sucli teeny little ones. And little cups 
and saucers, as she liad played with them. 
But she was not there. The little clothes she 
wore a week since were all there, folded nicely, 
as were the beautiful little hands we saw in 
the coffin, folded over her breast, as if she was 
saying, ~ 

" Now I lay me down to sleep." 

And the little apron she had torn by catch- 
ing it as she ran past a wood box, and for 
which came the cutting words. This too lay 
there, folded with the rest, just as she had 
worn it and torn it. In a little box were one, 
two, three, four little curls, golden and beauti- 
ful, and one of them for us. You who are 
rich do not always know which are the 
rarest treasures ! 

The tears of the mother dropped fast into 
the second grave of her lost one. Never a word 
did either speak ; her heart was, oh ! so far 



The Old Bureau Drawers, 269 

away. And as the drawer w^as closed, and 
silently we returned to another room with 
onr treasure, we could not help thinking of 
others who mourn for little ones, of the thou- 
sands of drawers or little boxes all over the 
land wherein are kept most sacredly the tear- 
wet mementoes of the loved ones who have 
gone before. Dearer than life are these treas- 
ures. Here mothers can weep and pray; 
here the heart can overflow its bitterness, and 
take another look, and leap toward the beau- 
tiful future, w^here are waiting those we loved, 
but w^ho have gone. 

And as you would meet there the dear ones 
of the heart, speak kindly. Another Saturday 
Xight, and you may be childless. Another 
Saturday Night, ai;d your tears may drop 
in upon the little folded clothes and playthings. 
And it must be hard to know that our lost 
ones carried with them hearts covered with 
the bruises our lips or acts have made. God, 



270 Our Saturday Nights. 

who is good, grant that none who read this 
may have these lasting graves with them now, 
or with them when shall come another Saturday 
Kight, for we would have no heart filled with 
sadness. And not for the result of a life of 
toil would we have our little darling die; per- 
haps her last thought be of words to her 
spoken which cut and wounded. You see w^e 
cannot call back the words, nor our lost ones, 
to ask them to forgive us. 

All the evening we have sat and thought 
of the bureau drawers which hold more than 
the clothes of the little darling who died, — 
they hold the hearts of the living. They are 
rounds in the ladder w^hich reaches 'way up 
there beyond the blue and into the golden ; 
beyond the clouds into the smiles. In palaces 
and fine mansions, where hired nurses care for 
little ones, these drawers are not so richly 
freighted; but in the homes of the poor, yes, 



The Old Bureau Drawers, 271 

and in some of the liomes of the rich, they 
hold more than tongue can telL 

Then let ns love our little ones more. Let 
us always speak kindly to them. Then they 
will love us and try to do right. And if we 
go home to rest in the beautiful land before 
they go, they will love our memories and so 
live as to meet us. As yet we have no 
bureau drawer over which to weep. God 
grant we never may have. But we often 
think of those who have, and wonder if those 
who mourn were kind to the little ones whose 
mounds are in the churchyards, but whose play- 
things are folded and put away, as is our work 
for this Saturday JSTight. 



SATURDAY NIGHT IMPROMPTU TO MY DARLING. 




AELING ! before to-niglit I close my eyes 
In sleep, an earnest kiss to thee I send 
By tlie loved spirits. A sweet surprise 
And welcome as the glances from thine eyes 

When on thy lips mine did oft attend — 
A pure, lingering kiss of love, 

Darling, good-night! 

Saturday Night ! would that I were by thy side, 
Palm on palm resting as in hours of yore ; 

When to my kisses you with like replied, 

And our hearts in love grew strong allied, 
Waiting love's rest on the eternal shore. 

Interest on those kisses now I send. 

Darling, good-night I 

Heart loved, I pray " Our Father" each night to bless 
The one to whom I send this kiss of love ; 

And then I linger on the last caress 

You gave me, and, Darling, I must confess 
I think more of it than of Him Above ! 

Then take this kiss for thee alone — 

Darling, good-night I 

THE END. 

(272) 



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